Monday 28 December 2015

Update

For any and all erstwhile readers of the blog, I'd like to provide a little update.

I realize that since my last post there's been radio silence on my end with photos, blog posts, and tweets. Everything is fine! I've left Ecuador and have just finished celebrating Christmas with friends and family in Bogota, Colombia.

The next part of my journey consists of backpacking through the country with a light backpack, so I'm of course not taking my laptop! This means that the nature of my blog will be changing. I can't upload photos at the moment, and am reliant on intermittent wifi, so posts will likely be shorter and more sporadic, and photos and sketches will be via Instagram and Twitter. I'm keeping a full sketchbook as I travel, and when normal service resumes, I'll upload some of my work from on the road.

I'm going to be back in Bogota in mid-February, where I'll rejoin my laptop and start regularly blogging again with long posts and pictures. I hope to celebrate the return with a virtual tour of street art in the capital!

Hasta luego (por el momento),
Ailsa

Friday 18 December 2015

Volcano Top Trumps

I can't believe I'm leaving this country in less than 48 hours! I have really treasured my time here in Ecuador. By my estimate, I have been to 9 volcanoes during my two months' here. Not bad! Volcanoes are what I came for, saw, and mostly conquered; although Cayambe remained out of my reach on this occasion. My plan on return is to complete the '1-2-3': Chimborazo, Cotopaxi, and Cayambe. We'll see how I get on!

My farewell-for-now to Ecuador is this portfolio on the volcanoes I've visited so far. They're in order of the time visited between 16/10/15 and 14/12/15. I've also added stats particular to each volcano, based on the 'Top Trumps' model. Here we go! Explanations and references can be found at the bottom of the page.

                                                                                                                  


Name - COTOPAXI (Quechwa, 'mouth of the moon')
Height (m) - 5,897
Strength - 4
Agility - 1
Age - 2015 CE (years after 0 A.D.)
Fighting Skills - Volcano-tectonic, hybrid and long-seismicity events. Powerful lahars.
                                                                                                                  

Wawa Pichincha in background (4,784 m).
Ruku Pichincha (4,969 m)
Name - WAWA PICHINCHA (Quechwa, 'baby Pichincha') 
and RUKU PICHINCHA (Quechwa, 'old man Pichincha')
Height (m) - 4,784 (Wawa) and 4,696 (Ruku)
Strength - 4
Agility - 2
Age - 2002 CE
Fighting Skills - Explosive activity. Vicinity to Quito provides alarming edge to ashfalls.
                                                                                                                  


Name - CHACANA (?, Related to 'chacana' cross?)
Height (m) - 4,643
Strength - 0
Agility - 2
Age - 1773 CE
Fighting Skills - Historical andesitic lava flows.
                                                                                                                  


Name - TUNGURAHUA (Quechwa, 'throat of fire')
Height (m) - 5,023
Strength - 4
Agility - 100
Age - 2015 CE
Fighting Skills - Everything. Pyroclastic flows, ash falls, lahars, Strombolian activity, 
explosions, gas, ash, and water vapour emissions.
                                                                                                                  


Name - QUILOTOA (Quechwa, 'toothed queen')
Height (m) - 3,914
Strength - 6 (non-historic)
Agility - 0
Age - 1280 CE
Fighting Skills - Plinian eruption of VEI 6 (1280 CE), 'bottomless' lake
                                                                                                                  


Name - FUYA-FUYA (Quechwa, 'cold-cold')
Height (m) - 4,263
Strength - N/A
Agility - 4
Age - 0.2 Ma
Fighting Skills - Caldera collapse
                                                                                                                  

Name - ILINIZA (Kunza, 'masculine hill')
Height (m) - 5,248 (Sur) and 5, 126 (Norte)
Strength - N/A
Agility - 2
Age - >10,000a BP
Fighting Skills - None. Pleistocene activity, intermediate andesitic-to-dacitic composition.

Iliniza Sur (5,248 m)
Iliniza Norte (5, 126 m)
                                                                                                                  



Name - ANTISANA (Quechwa, 'dark mountain')
Height (m) - 5,704
Strength - 0
Agility - 1
Age - 1802 CE
Fighting Skills - Viscous historical blocky lava flows (c. 1800 CE).
                                                                                                                  


Name - CAYAMBE (Quitus, 'youth, origin of life')
Height (m) - 5,790
Strength - 4
Agility - 2
Age - 1786 CE
Fighting Skills - Holocene explosive eruptions, 4000a BP
                                                                                                                  

Notes: 'Strength' is based on eruption with largest VEI in historic activity (defined as since 1534, the year of Quito's foundation. 'Age' is just a number, but is defined here by date of last confirmed eruption. 'Fighting skills' defined as volcano-tectonic behaviour particularly associated with that volcano, if there is any.

References: main sources are volcano.si.edu, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andean_Volcanic_Belt, www.volcanodiscovery.com, and www.summitpost.org.
Specifically interesting pages:
- http://www.ecuaworld.com/climbing-cayambe/
- http://www.ecuador.com/protected-areas/antisana-ecological-reserve/
- https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Illiniza
- https://jenainecuador.wordpress.com/2012/08/20/lagunas-de-mojanda/
- http://www.villadetacvnga.com/services/quilotoa-tour/

All that's left to say is thank you so much if you have been reading along and supporting the journey. It's really appreciated, and I love hearing back from people about the content or style, whether complimentary or critical. I love writing as a way to record my travels, and I hope this has encouraged someone to take that next step into adventure, whether that's starting a journal or planning a next trip.



Entonces, nos vemos en un ratito, Ecuador!



Sun rising north of an erupting Cotopaxi, caught from path up to Iliniza Norte.

Wednesday 16 December 2015

Aye Cayambe!

So here is a little piece on Cayambe, or how I felt when climbing it. We didn't make it to the top of the volcano; you can probably tell that I am a little disappointed by that. However, while we sat on the shoulder at 5400 metres, we saw a sight that we wouldn't have seen at the summit, and I felt extraordinarily lucky to be there.




A bedtime before sunset,
Furlongs of restlessness rolled into the down bag,
and woke up in the brightening blackness to hear
The ecstatic sound of a liberated waterfall
And the short-sighted cataracts in my eye visualise the summit
While an injunction pounds in my head: climb the mountain, do it now.


After a sleepless sleep, we rise
Strap on our equipment to do battle,

Take a strategical vomit
And fortify ourselves against milque-toast thinking
With soft white bread and dreams of planting the flag
In the purest flour of summit snow.


Troops assemble outside the refuge;
Now our band of three appears rather small.

Into the night we go:
Above the studded palm of a town, told in fortune-teller's lights;
Stars falling ahead, luminary lovers crossed with snow that scuttles past
On its way to bedrock. 
Still, to our left, a tangential slope of ice, the angle remaining a theorem
as we tackle the intermediate problem
Calculating the physics by which crampon strikes ground.
And still, still ahead, the great white wall rises, a wall projected, waiting to be vandalised. 

The time must go
And the night also rises, the swell of its hand
As it stretches to swat:
Blocking out the stars, not one by one
But in sweeps and washes of a black paintbrush.
We can't see it, but we are walking on the beast:
the great grey back of the glacier, the ancient creature with
A cracked and misshapen mantle as though it were shedding its skin
Crevasses that yawn and shake off the night's white sleep
A wide grin, narrowing off to a dimple that we trace
And tenaciously, jump
the grimacing gap.
Through the waves and undulations of our fear, sickness, fatigue
We pass to find the perfect storm frozen at the shoulder
And stayed a while, to watch the crest 
Of a new dawn rise behind the sleeping monster


See: Lilliputian workers measure their strength
in lengths of pick-axe, marks staggered up the hill;

Crampons put the force behind their words: I am here to take you on, beast




And as I watch them climb the peak

See my summit recede before me
Overland ants climb into the rosy dawn
We turn, exhausted, to begin the descent
Back to the ground, where words are needed
Strength measured in sheets not pick-axes
And where moles make mountains I don't want to climb


We get a surprise: gift-wrapped in myth and meteorology

For being there, forsaking the summit
It appears this is the right place and time
For the hills to the south are spun with gold
That mantles here and there their deepening green
The peaks rise as tree-tops through the mist while
Skeins and spools of clouds twist on the loom of the wind
And yet we can see the rivers of cloud to the west
That fill in that whitening blue
And begin to scribble the story of the coming day;
They wouldn't have this view, up there.




Sunday 13 December 2015

Good morning!

Late last night, I was browsing the magazines strewn around the hostel at which I'm staying. I picked up Intelligent Life on a whim; I've never read it before, and the pretentious title seemed to be too highbrow for a lazy read before bed.

Boy, was I wrong. The magazine was filled with a variety of in-depth and thoughtful pieces that I really loved. One set in particular stood out. This was a collection of mini-essays by seven separate authors, each intimating their favourite time of the day. Between the delicious sheets I fell, and devoured the stories one by one. Regardless of time and of place they were set: I began with a trip back through time to 4 pm in the '60s English countryside, and then found a present-day domestic scene at elevenses; skipped through a post-dawn Mumbai, only to find myself staring down at networks of city lights during a midnight long-haul flight.

I'll always love written words for the ability to transport myself wherever I want. However, my favourite time of day is that period when I don't have to be anywhere else, when the morning is my own. I am like the Mumbai author, desperately seeking that half-hour in the morning where nothing is urgent yet.

Time: 07:10.
Reason: Just after seven is time enough and tide to sit still and let the world rise to meet you. In a chair, with a cup and a window; your breath cooling the tea, and the sun warming the city. I like to think of it as a type of slow cooking. We begin at six a.m.: the counter-tops are swept and clean, and the ingredients of the city are still in their cupboards, shuttered securely behind their doors. The simple, everyday ingredients come out first - yellow taxis, almost bursting from their skins in haste; humble street sweepers. Of course, any good chef knows that you should clean up as you go, and between the sweepers and the jaunty garbage men the task is performed admirably. At quarter to seven, the first street vendors arrive to begin seasoning the pot. Fruit pots come, mote and empanada stands too; also a little metal cart of mysterious green bottles, that I haven't yet had the courage to try. Perhaps it's the secret ingredient that makes the city's recipe so delicious.

Why 07:10? That's the magical moment in the process, when the whole show comes together. Before, little mishaps and minor catastrophes would occur. By just after seven, however, the uncommon mixture of ingredients blend together to form an irresistible simmer of life on the other side of the looking-glass. My day hasn't started yet; there's no need for me to move from this chair. I can sit, and let the minutes grow; I can wait for half an hour and, prone to anxiety as I am, those thirty minutes are a wonder of peace. I let others' life pass me by. 

Too soon the minute hand ticks past the half-hour. My tea has gone cold, or more often has been already finished. I could boil the kettle again, but it seems a sign that I should start to get ready for the day ahead. There will certainly be cups of tea to be drunk along the way. But there are none that I enjoy more than this first one, brewed in the timeless minutes before the day begins, savoured and sipped slowly. There's another one to come tomorrow.

Saturday 12 December 2015

Another Week at the OVT: Day 8

I've been longing to write about last Thursday on the side of Tungurahua, and a completed post has been long in the works. However, since my last post (here), I have climbed Tungurahua, risked a rickety bus journey to the city, celebrated the capital's birthday at Fiesta de Quito, worked on the side of Cotopaxi, been kicked out of an apartment and reinstated, and finished some PhD applications. Things have definitely been frantic, but still: I apologise for the late response.

The Thursday in question, 3rd December, was fascinating because I learned first-hand the devastating power that a volcano can have, even with minor eruptions. During the course of our 14-hour day, we saw damage to property and to people, and I understood some of the danger and damage  that is faced by those who choose to live on and reap the benefits of the volcano's fertile flanks.

I was out for the day with Ben, a long-time expert in Tungurahua ash. We began our day at 06:30, and by eight had already invaded houses, climbed the side of a castle, and infiltrated the roof of a school. The reason? To inspect Ben's cenizometros, ingenious contraptions made from plastic bottles that were designed to capture and quantify the amount of ash that had fallen from the volcano. Of course, ash first falls on roofs and terraces, and so the cenizometros (ceniza = ash in Spanish) had to be both vulnerable to open air and well-hidden from inquisitive strangers. My favourite cenizometro spot was below, at Rio Verde overlooking the Manto de la Novia (Bride's Veil) waterfall. We could see the volcano to our south, beautiful and distant, slightly hazy. As the day grew, it became clearer and clearer - the damage that it could do.

Real-life Chutes and Ladders.
And they say that academics live in an ivory tower ...
After we had completed our studies of the villages to the east, we took the eastern road towards Riobamba. We stopped above the small town of Bilbao, and here began a long trek up the side of the volcano. Little by little, the lush beauty of the valley left us behind. The flowers were the first to go, their riot of colour changed up to a simple palette of two: green, the grass; grey, the ash. The trees were uniformly silver, their leaves shivering in fear at lower altitudes, and abducted further up. Trees became limbs became stumps wizened to nothing, ground down in the receding grass. Eventually, that went too.

The dead and dying life around T-07, the highest station on the western flank of Tungurahua.
A barren landscape at 3000 metres.
One of the many houses abandoned to ruin by previous volcanic activity. The tree to the left stood perfectly silver with ash.
Even when we continued down the slope, the effects of the volcano stayed with us. I spied several houses that had been completely ruined, then abandoned. As we drove down the road, we passed a church. Its roof had vanished. The walls bowed in, like repentant churchgoers, contrarily: shouldn't they have supported the roof, and not the other way round? Herbs now grew in the space where the faithful used to pray.

As we continued with the day, it became harder to maintain hope.  How could Roberto and his family, down in Chonglitus, continue to work their land in the face of disaster? The simple answer was that they had no choice. The abundant ash-falls on the 18th and 19th of November had decimated their crops: maiz, frejoles, papas, tomates, all were covered in a widow's veil of ash, and although the family of four had strived to brush off the sooty war-paint, the battle was clearly lost, twelve hours of sunshine abstinence enough to kill the plants. Three months of hard work gone overnight. A small group of black cows grazed in the distance, their coats glossy. Large hens with lustrous feathers pecked hopefully among the stubbled fields. The animals looked healthy, but the people spoke of disappointment and difficulty. Senor Roberto's mother wandered around the I.G. truck mournfully, repeating her words over and over in a harshly accented voice. Gone, completely gone. We asked why they hadn't planted onions (known to be resistant to ash because of their negligible presence above ground); but the family had planted onions before, and they had fallen prey to a wild strain of disease. When they had gone to their local mayor, he had created an elegant solution. Move, he said, go to the town of Penipe and there you'll be safe from the ash. And do what? These people are farmers, born and bred, and good at it. They harness their skills excellently to produce wonderful and rich crops; the price they pay is the occasional natural disaster. Farming in Tungurahua, you don't always reap what you sow.

Three months of work, down the drain! It was impossible to not think of the cruelty and opportunity of that time-scale: how could we in the UK ever hope to produce four harvests in a year? And yet, in under a day their hard work had gone down in dust. Ben gave Roberto $40 for his work in collecting ash data. It didn't seem a great deal to cover the months ahead.
Below the ruined houses, you can see the remains of the former bridge at Palilactua. The houses have indoor gardens, now.
Our penultimate stop was at Palilactua, in which we arrived just as dusk was falling (19:15). The volcano was usually never clear from this side, but it appeared that we had struck lucky. By the falling light, I could look out from the cenizometro spot and see the ruins, the aftermath of a huge lahar that had passed through the village in 2010. On the left bank of the river, a concrete slab from the previous bridge provided a convenient headstone to itself. Ruined houses mournfully tended gardens within their cloistered walls. A man passed us, his eyes suspicious and watchful.

By the time we finished, it was so dark that we were working in head-torches. Our final cenizometro stop was beside a pig-pen in the high village near Huambalo. I listened to the pigs snort, and counted the stars, while holding a conversation with the owner of the pigs. He told us of the eruption on 18th November. Wild storms! Darkness at midday! We asked if he had been affected, but it seemed not. It's never fair, whom the volcano hurts.

Friday 4 December 2015

Another Week at the OVT: Day 7

I'm back at OVT!

Do you remember your first year at university? You were probably in halls, like I was, and you probably, like me, had that one person on your corridor. You know the one I mean. The constant loud noise, sudden and eventful spillages out of the door (ie. vomcanoes), mysterious odours and bumps in the night; perhaps, if you were really (un)lucky, an impromptu fireworks display? Living beside an active volcano is precisely the same - except on a grander scale.

I'll start with the predictable: volcanoes are unpredictable. This week I'm here at O.V.T. with Vivi, Ben, and Julian. Vivi has been many times; on her first visit, in December 2012, she saw enormous pyroclastic flows, and an eruption column that reached more than 10 km into the sky above, where they curled and twisted with the shape of the wind. The legend of the Mayan calendar marking the end of the world in 12-2012 had come to Ecuador, and she joked that she had thought that this was the start of the end of the world! On another of her stays, the volcano erupted when she was working at an acoustic flow monitor (A.F.M.) station at 4000 metres altitude. Patty had called her in a panic, convinced that the eruptive column had wiped Vivi out. The most recent time, mid-November 2015. Three weeks ago, there was fantastic incandescence overnight. I remember her asking me to come along with her that week, when we were on the cafe on the ground floor of the Institute's building, drinking coffee and sheltering from the rain. I went to the coast instead, and missed out on the big room-mate's most spectacular antics for weeks.

Ben talks about the incandescent activity he saw in 2010: with enormous blocks and boulders thrown out on the slopes. One had risen 100 metres into the air, then fell out and splashed into enormous shards where it hit the slopes. Ben also recalls how, once, they taped up the windows of the observatory as shock waves rebounded against the windows. If they hadn't,the glass would have shattered inwards. Sometimes the explosions of the volcanoes would be loud enough to keep people awake at night.

Tungurahua apparently loves parties. Unfortunately for the volcano, whenever it tries to get involved in local celebrations ... things get a little heated. Ben observed how the volcano has an uncanny knack for setting up fireworks displays on Ecuadorian and French holidays; and guess which are the two most common nationalities of those who observe the volcano? Case in point: one of the larger eruptions in recent years was on 14th July 2013: Bastille Day. Like your unpredictable room-mate, volcanoes can have a great sense of humour.

                                                                           

In Spanish:
¡He regresado por O.V.T.!

¿Recuerdas tu primero año el universidad? Probabilmente, come yo, quedaste en una residencia propriedado del universidad, y probabilmente, como yo, estuvo por tu corredor uno de esas personas. Conoces a lo que estoy hablando. La ruida alta, derrames alrededor de la puerta (i.e. vomcanoes), olores extraños y sonidos por la noche? (Quizas, al veces, un exhibicion de fuegos artificiales). Quando se vive al lado de un volcán activo, es muy similar - excepto que los riesgos son muchos mas grandes. 

Es un perogrullada que los volcanes son impredecible. Esta semana estoy trabajando acá, en el Observatorio del Volcan Tungurahua (OVT), con Vivi, Ben, y Julian. Vivi ya vino al OVT muchos veces. En su primer visita, en el Diciembre 2012, vio algunes flujos piroclásticos, y además una columna de erupción que alcanzó al mas que 10 kilómetros por  su altura final. El viento se cogió las nubes de ceniza, y les retorció en formas fantásticos. Ecuador conoce también del mito del calendario maya, que habló del fin del mundo que habría sucecido en el Diciembre 2012. Vivi bromeó con nosotros que había creyó que el erupción del volcán estaba indicando el fin del mundo! La visita del Vivi lo mas reciente fue hace tres semanas, en las mediados del Noviembre. El volcan estaba mostrando exhibiciones maravillosos de incandescencia por todas las noches. Yo recuerdo que me pedió si queré ir con ella, y ahora yo me arrepiento que no fui. 

Ben habla del actividad y la incandescencia del volcán que vio en el año 2010: fue bloques y piedras enormes que habían sido lanzado desde el crater hasta los flancos. Uno de los bloques había volado unos cientos metros por el aire encima del crater, y pues se cayó y salpicó acabado del lado occidental. Una vez, los trabajadores cubrieron las ventanas del observatorio con cinta Scotch, porque las olas de sonida fueron del nivel sufficiente por romper el vidrio en las ventanas. Ademas, las ruidas del volcán se despertaron todo el mundo. 


A Tungurahua le encanta a las fiestas. Desafortunadamente, cuando el volcán trata de juntarse a las celebraciones en Baños ... las cosas van mal. ¿Es solo mala suerte que los erupciones coinciden con las fiestas ecuatorianos y francéses? ¡Y conjeturas tú que son los dos nacionalidades más comúnes aquí en Baños! Por ejemplo, uno de los erupciónes mas grande en los años recientes fue en el julio 14, 2013: el día del Bastille. ¡Los volcánes también pueden tener un sentido del humor!


Tuesday 1 December 2015

Illiniza Norte

Sunday, 29th November:

Miriam's phone crackled and blared into life at four o'clock. On the end of the line was Pablo, our guia (guide); he wanted us to know that he was running late, and would be outside my flat in five minutes.

'No worries', Miriam assured him, as I scrambled to get my things together. Outside, the sky was the colour of ink. Quito twinkled quietly under a blanket of clouds.

At 4:15 a.m., we were racing out of Quito on the Pan-American highway, Pablo at the wheel and our gear in the back. Our challenge for today was to attempt the 5126-metre summit of Illiniza Norte. The Illinizas come as a pair, and the north summit is recommended as a trek for those who want to acclimatise for higher mountains such as Cotopaxi and Cayambe. We had seen the former at five a.m. (a hazy pyramid against a lightening blue) and by half past the hour had crossed the tracks of the Tren Crucero, the tourist toy that forms a lazy trail across the country. Now, at 5:45, here we were at the entrance of Reserva Ecologica Los Illinizas. A chain across the entrance, an empty ranger's station, a sign saying the park opened at 8. An inauspicious start that was not to be borne by Pablo, who banged on the windows of the station until a sleepy ranger came to let us through.

An erupting Volcan Cotopaxi above the clouds at 7 a.m.
Up the rutted track we bounced; kept in suspense by the health of the wheezing 4x4. We rounded the corner and suddenly, there they were, lit up by the colours of dawn: Illiniza Norte and Illiniza Sur. They were an imposing pair of siblings, up to say their prayers at first light. Sur was snow-capped, icy and regal; Norte appeared the friendlier of the two, cheerful and ruddy-sloped. The word Illiniza apparently means 'masculine hill' in Kunza, although I'd say that with her glacial beauty Sur looked like a glamorous older sister.

Illiniza Sur with Laguna Illinizas to the right.
And so we climbed. Our early start had served us well, for we had a clear view of the mountains, and the path grew upwards so that they were always in our frame of view. I settled in for the walk, and began to make their acquaintance. Thoughts and judgements passed over me like the clouds over Sur, but by the time we reached the refuge, I thought I knew them pretty well...

Illiniza Sur (5248m) is imposing, dashing, and breathtakingly beautiful. An almost perfect pyramid, it is covered on several sides by ice shelves that curve deeply and vanish cruelly. It's a climb that requires skill and technical expertise, that few can claim to own; on our ascent of Illiniza Norte, we saw only one set of footprints marking the way up to the Sur summit. Many clouds struggled over the summit during the course of our day. The first ones that made it were reamed out to a fine candy-floss, and formed a beautiful swirl; like a Mr Whippy ice-cream, or Donald Trump's toupee. Pablo informed us that these are a sure sign of strong winds at the summit. Kudos to those who made it.

Summit of Illiniza Sur, with Mr. Whippy clouds.
Illiniza Norte (5126m) is less imposing than its taller sister. It is a friendly mountain of excellent character, standing slightly shorter, much broader, and built with a long ridge running over its back and interlocking plates of hexagonally-jointed lava columns on its flanks. These features combined with the warm colours of the mountain (orange, rust, ochre) to give it an incandescent halo; in the early morning, with the sun's rays warming away the hail that had settled on the upper flanks, the mountain looked like a sleeping armadillo, yet to come out of its shell.

Early view of eastern face of Illiniza Norte, with last night's hail still resting.
Our path changed from a quebrada (stream) to some scree slopes. My heart was beating loudly in my ears. We were, after all, at great altitude. The mountains before us were amazing; but it was incredible as well to think that as we climbed the sweet and unimposing slopes of the valley below, we were actually at greater altitude than almost the whole of Europe. Mid-morning we arrived at Refugio de Nuevos Horizontes (New Horizons Refuge), located at 4750 metres. It was small and sweet, mostly taken up by six enormous bunk beds that could hold two double mattresses each. The rest of the hostel was a poky, sooty little kitchen, which held supplies for hot drinks and chocolate. There had been eight guests last night, who had left between half-two and three to attempt the south summit. We learnt this from the ranger-in-residence, a sly and laconic soul who seemed happy with his own company; he asked us a few questions with sleepy eyes, and then left us to fix our tea while he curled up sleepily in his tiny bunk above the kitchen. The bunk caught the warm up-drafts from the kettle; give him a ray of sunshine and a ball of string, I thought, and he'd be in heaven.

Refugio Nuevos Horizontes in front of Illiniza Norte.
After our break at the Refugio we continued, leaving behind the grey scree of the lower slopes and moving into the warm oranges and reds of the true Illiniza Norte. Pablo pointed out the tiny lake behind us. Laguna Illinizas. Too green to be natural? He'd swam in it before, on his way to one of his summit attempts that were now so numerous that he'd lost count. The lake marked the sweet spot between the two wildly different characters of the Illinizas.

The meeting of the two mountains.
We roped up for the last push to the summit. My heart began to pound louder. A few days before our hike, piqued (peaked?) by a fit of curiosity, beforehand, I had looked up the route guide for Illiniza Norte:

'Start at the La Virgen parking lot', twittered the internet, 'and continue to the Refugio de Nuevos Horizontes. Continue climbing beyond the lake, and you will approach the Paso de la Muerte [Death Step]. It's quite a good idea to rope up on this; one wrong foot will mean death as you plunge thousands of feet below. Many climbers have lost their lives on Illiniza Norte, particularly intermediate climbers who underestimate the difficulty of the climb. Don't forget to enjoy yourself!' Aye, right.

Believe it or not, Paso de la Muerte was not as bad as the name suggested; proven by my being alive to write this. We got to the summit, and I put some mementos on the iron cross. A Canadian flag, as a shout-out to where I first mountaineered; and a bracelet in the colours of Ecuador. A good-luck charm left at the summit, to thank the Illinizas for a wonderful day.

The summit cross.
                                                                                                        

Shout-out to Pablo, our wonderful guide. He taught us many things: rope management, pacing, how to stay cheerful on Death's Step, and in addition, a bucket-load of Spanish. Fortunately we had no problems on the Paso de la Muerte: I would have hated to have asked him to repeat 'Watch out! Falling rock!'  in English. Here are a list of all the words I learned:
Fox (zorro); Ecuadorian lupins (sachachocha); exposed (expuesto); effort (esfuerzo); to sweat (sudar); to cool (enfriar); multi-pitch; scree (moraina); peas (arvejas); beans (frejoles); ice (hielo); saddle (ensillada); step (paso); knife-ridge (cuchilla); rope management (manejo de la cuerda); helmet (casco).

Stats:

We climbed 5126 metres: Illiniza Norte is the 8th highest peak in Ecuador. I hope to climb the 3rd (Cayambe) in two weeks.
We took 8 hours and 35 minutes to climb Illiniza Norte. This can be broken down as: leave La Virgen parking lot 06:20, first break around 07:45 by boulder, reached shoulder by 09:00, refugio 09:15 - 09:40, ropes on around 10:20, first peak 11:10 (after Paso de la Muerte), summit 12:05, bottom of scree slope 13:20, passed quebrada around 14:00, arrival at La Virgen parking lot 14:55.

Good reading resources:

1. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Illiniza
2. http://www.summitpost.org/illiniza-norte-iliniza-norte/151055
3. http://volcano.si.edu/volcano.cfm?vn=352041
4. http://thecloudocean.com/2014/02/19/illinizanorte/

Pictures to include: Panorama including Cotopaxi, Illinizas, Corazon (1); Refugio and IN (2), Cotopaxi erupting (3); IN close-up at dawn (route drawn on?) (4); Laguna with 2 mountains meeting (5); Cross w remnants on it (6); Travel buddies on scree (7)

Thursday 26 November 2015

Quito's been cloudy lately.


About a week ago, I started to wake up slowly.

It began the day after I got back from the Pacific coast. At Playa Escondida I spent two days of drowsy, sleeping wakefulness, during which time I only stirred from my hammock to flop on the grass, or float in the sea, or wander down the beach and half-heartedly gather shells. After such a long and lazy pursuit of restfulness, I expected to get right back into the swinging rhythm of Quito. And yet, somehow, I didn't.

I felt that some more rest was justified; after all, the journey back to Quito had been relatively fraught. We had climbed 3000 metres on a winding road in the cold, wet dark, an essay of a trip that was punctuated by horns blaring periodically and sudden, commathetical stops on lonely roadsides to pick up wailing candy-sellers. Our only ray of hope was a Technicoloured paper picture of Jesus stuck to the front door, who I'm afraid to say I lost faith in when he continued to smile benevolently after the bus's twentieth near-miss. Maybe the meek will inherit the Earth; but at the moment, the mad own the roads. Afterwards, I told myself I would take it easy, and so I did. Tuesday, Wednesday evenings were spent in, with the company of wonderful movies (Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind) and a glass of wine.

I noticed a shift in my mood on Thursday. In the morning, I woke from a fitful slumber. I remembered this feeling: the journey on Monday, drugged on antihistamines; jolted awake at an unfamiliar bus station, I had had enough time to briefly stretch my legs and then return to the bus and sleep. There was no reason to wake up. This is a pretty terrifying sense of deja vu to have when you know that you're in busy Quito, and you have to be at work in under an hour.

This feeling persisted over the weekend. I started from a glutinous stew of sleep to a daytime that seems just as thick and placid. Come 11 o'clock, I would enter the witching hour. From then until 6pm, I moved as if sleepwalking, my limbs zombified. Several times, many minutes would pass at a time before I realised that I had been daydreaming. I had no motivation or desire to go out, and why would I, when home was so safe and so boring. I thought that I had nothing to contribute, and lay in the turnover of covers with strange and unreasonable thoughts passing through my head. What's the point of anything? What am I doing here? 

Most of my posts have focussed on new experiences in Quito, and on adventures around the city. It's so easy to write every day about how amazing South America is, how kind the people are, how strange the confectionery is. All these things were, and are, true. The people of Quito are always so kind and speak always too fast, the confectionery is ever more mystifying (I still miss Green & Black's), and every day, things here continue to be exciting and varied. It's just my attitude that has varied. I have had a week of really stinking, depressing homesickness, and at the moment everything in Quito is not quite as magical as it appeared before.

There are two quotes that I have found, recently, that I think have captured what depression feels like to me. These are:
Melissa Broder - "What idiot called it 'depression' and not "there are bats living in my chest and they take up a lot of room, ps. I see a shadow"?"
and Matt Haig - "To other people, it sometimes seems like nothing at all. You're walking around with your head on fire and no-one can see the flames."
Now, to be honest, I'm not in as deep as all that. The beings in my chest are more the size of fruit flies than fruit bats. I still feel a little unhappy, and it's okay to feel unhappy, sometimes, even when you're on the adventure of a lifetime. I love it here; and yet I found myself Googling 'follies in Scotland' today. I suppose that indicates how much I miss home. Or do I? There were problems in Edinburgh, I know, even when I was there. I was sometimes lonely, it was too cold, I never had enough time to write. Now that I think about it, they are exactly the same issues that I face here. So what do I really miss? The highlights: Blackford Hill on Christmas with my family, the Cobbler with Anneke, the drinks I had out with school friends.

Today I think I can answer my earlier question, What's the point of anything, sort of. There isn't really a point. There isn't any deep meaning to the work that I do, and yes someone else could probably do it instead of me. I know that when I am feeling good in Quito, I enjoy a great deal of things for their own sake: I love to read, I enjoy photography and long walks around my city, I love the street food and most of all I love the people here, their language, their looks and their outlook. The meaning of life is to give life meaning. My mistake the last week has been to feel that motivation causes action: that I should feel good in order to do these things. I'm a native speaker of English, and have a parent with a degree in English; shouldn't my grammar be better? I've confused subject and object: I do these things in order to feel good. Motivation follows action.

I don't feel amazing yet. But I'm writing this at 11 o'clock, and there's a patch of blue sky out the office window. I'm going to eat well for lunch, and hope to call my parents. There's a silver lining.


Friday 20 November 2015

I've absconded to Playa Escondida

In the far, far north, on the west, west coast, past the great, dark town, down the red, rough track, through the clean, green grass, lies a true blue sea ... or rather, the largest ocean on Earth. We're half a degree of latitude north of the Equator, so far have we come, and behind us is the whole of South America and before us is a stretch of water that spans over 15,000 km unbroken. With a friend, I have escaped the hassle and bustle of Quito to swim and sketch. This is Playa Escondida - meaning hidden beach in Spanish. It's well-named!

Since I have already added all my decent photos on Facebook, this post is composed mostly by sketches. There's also a whimsical little story. Enjoy!


                                                                                       

A vine-clad tree in front of bougainvillea: the flora that dominate Playa Escondida.
The spirit of Playa Escondida! Actually, this dog
was at Quitumbe bus terminal in Quito, where we spent
eight accidental hours on Saturday morning.


Above - the decorations and flowers would be heaven for Georgia O'Keeffe!

I slept in every hammock. Swing and a miss, or a good joke?
"When you're old, all you want to do is stare at the scenery. It's so strange. I've never felt so peaceful before."

                                                                                            

(NB. For anyone who finds the tale familiar, it was inspired by a short story called La Plage by Alain Robbe-Grillet. It's a beautifully evocative story, with a strong sense of mystery. Read it if you can get your hands on it!)

Two girls walk along a beach. One is red; the other, fair. They move forward, not together, and not apart, stopping here and there for a detail written in the sand, but always returning, walking on, to a point on the distant horizon. 

They are walking halfway down a long strip of beach, aiming towards the west. To their left, towards the land, the sand shifts golden and floats buttery in the gentle breeze that blows in from the sea. A yellow cliff marks the boundary between the forest and the beach; the cliff is topped by white, faded trees, that resemble pieces of driftwood, cast off - yet they grow tall on the cliff's edge, and occasionally they drop an orange leaf, one or two, as proof or sign of life. This rhythmic signal is mirrored in the cliffs, for here and there, now or then, a few rocks slip from the layered sandstones and clatter down, showering on the golden sand below.

Apart from these two tones, the only sound of the land comes from the shallow calling of distant birds. The two girls do not reply. Instead the sea answers from the right, in rhythmic swells; blue and tranquil responses, interrupted occasionally by a raised voice or a gesture in the form of a larger wave, that is just as soon quelled by the darker, wet-pressed sand by the water's edge.

Where the girls walk is neither dark nor light but a middle-coloured bronze, that is formed of tiny shells and corals, white and orange and wind-washed and water-marked. The ground underfoot is just firm enough so that they can leave their trail, and if one were to look back towards the way they came, one would see two pairs of footprints, painted carefully and evenly into the canvas of the beach. One could even study these footprints, and then what would they see: but a distinction, quite clear, between the two that have walked there. The first set of prints are hardly visible: small and light, with barely a mark forming the inner crescent. The left foot has traced a slightly clearer line than the right. The second set of footprints are clearer still, and the whole shape of the foot is clearly outlined in the sand. It will remain there until a particularly energetic wave comes, and triumphs over the beach; but this act, eventually achieved, goes unnoticed by the two girls, one fair, the other red, who carry on their way, down the sand, towards the point on the distant horizon.

Once or twice they stop, pause, study their surroundings. Throughout their journey they have continued down the central line of the beach, and it is here where the pawn shop discarded by the sea grows thickest and most generous in the wares it displays. Bottled glass worn smooth to the tone of velvet; conical shells, once roughened, like old furniture unwanted by hermit crabs now grown; a curious piece of coral, pink and purple, with a quaint sea-flower, attached and still intact, like a jaunty and rakish feather on a bonnet. The red girl is walking further behind; she stops to pick up a pebble. It is half-buried in the sand, and the exposed face has been warmed by the sun. Released, its colours are set off in the light. A darkening green, like the forest; striped through with a streak or two of red, ochreous and pungent, the colour of rust or leaves in the fall. She places the stone back in the sand. The fair girl, ahead, turns back to her.

"Should we carry on to the next point, or should we go back?"


                                                                                                 


Two girls swim in the ocean to the west. One is red; the other, fair. The water moves around their bodies and laps at their hair; the sound of the shore is all around them, and with the wind and the tides and the waves, their inner ears close to the surface, it is as if they can hear the sea inside. The distance sharpens from blue to a green that darkens until, at the horizon, a pencil line of forest colour marks the limit of what they can see. At various times, the line is altered by a swelling wave that disappears mysteriously by the time it has reached the girls; and then the water is flat, all the way to the beach, where it crawls up the sand hungrily and gnaws on the grains and shells it finds there.

The red girl turns her face out to the horizon. The breeze blows in; she might be facing north. In the distance, the same swell forms and breaks the line of green. She turns to her companion, the fair girl; she is not looking out but inwards, towards the land.

"Do you think there's a sandbank out there?"