Keyword: Sketch

After a couple nights in Quito and saying goodbye to my classmates, I spent Monday night in Cumbaya with my host family. It was wonderful to be back with such a welcoming, tight-knit, warm family in a clean house. There were no cockroaches, ants, or crickets attempting to take over my room, and no Miley Cyrus, Zac Efron, Vanesa Hudgens, Avril Lavigne, staring down from my bedroom walls. It felt like coming home.

I've turned into a tourist. Tuesday I took a bus to the town of Baños with a classmate and her family. In the process we managed to get on the wrong bus, courtesy of a driver who flat-out lied and informed us that his bus was direct to Baños... which we later realized was code for "I'm going to Ambato and I want your money." At every stop the bus made, the bus was boarded by people carrying bins of ice cream, platters of banana bread, banana chips, empañadas, newspapers, pirated CDs, gum, and soft drinks. Announcing their goods at the top of their lungs, they made their way to the back, shoving their goods in our faces before hurrying to jump off before the bus picked up too much speed. On occasion an individual would remain on board, regaling us with tales of political mishaps, bad luck, and in one case, a lecture on sexual health and examinations before walking through the aisle to collect donations.

Baños is touristy but beautiful, nestled in the base of the near-vertical hills surrounding Tungurahua. Unfortunately the clouds that accompany the rainy season concealed the tops of the hills, hiding the highly active volcano from view. A gorge cuts through the valley, the brown Rio PastazA rushing through the bottom, cutting the town off from the agricultural settlements on the hills situated to the other side. Our hostel looked out to a waterfall careening down the cliffs to one side and an old church, spires standing proud, to the other. Also, Baños is freezing.

Wednesday morning I woke up early. Clouds hung low in the valley, shrouding the cliffs. Upon walking to the waterfall visible from our hostel I discovered a narrow, vague path worn into the side of the cliff leading up from the base of the falls. I quickly discovered that running shoes are entirely insufficient for scrambling up near-vertical switchbacks composed of slick dirt and wet rocks, and that once you pull yourself up a sheer rock face with nothing to keep you from falling to your death if you slip, then you still have to get back down. From the top of the path, maybe halfway up the cliff, Baños appeared to be a quaint little town composed of legos set in rows in the bottom of a lush green bowl, patterns formed by crops crisscrossing the near inaccessible surrounding hills.

Later in the morning, we rented bikes to ride down the road running eastward toward the Jungle village of Puyo, following the river's gorge as it wound through the mountains. After crossing the gorge downriver of a giant hydroelectric dam, we continued on to pass around 15 waterfalls as tributaries plunged, either as graceful ribbons or thundering masses, into the Pastaza. A slight bit of drama ensued as three of the seven bikes managed to lose their chains at one point during the ride. By the time we reached the last fall we had descended into upper cloud forest-type vegetation. After walking a kilometer down into the gorge, we found ourselves on a wood-and rope bridge suspended over the gorge, allowing a view of el Pailon del Diablo, a giant waterfall crashing down onto a series of boulders before plunging to meet the other river. Walking our bikes back to the main road, we found ourselves assaulted by calls of, "A Baños? A Baños?" "Si!" We clambered into the back of a tarp-covered truck as the driver shoved our bikes into the opening, cutting out the majority of the light that would have seeped in from the very back. All too soon we discovered that, although our bikes were relatively secure, the benches upon which we sat were most definitely not. And so, we returned to Baños.

In the afternoon, we took part in a little bit of an adventure called canyoning. After taking an open-sided truck to a narrow dirt road, donning wetsuits, windbreakers, harnesses and helmets, we climbed to the top of a series of five cascades gracing the Rio Blanco. We then proceeded to rappel down through the cascades, the canyon rising up around us, enveloped by lush green overhanging vegetation. The joke started in the islands managed to pull through to the mainland: pee in the wetsuit, buy the guide a beer... or ten. According to the guides, the falls were 18 m, 20 m, 30 m, 10 m, and 5 m. According to me, the taller ones were shorter. According to the guides, we were entirely safe. According to me, we were asking for disaster. One of the ropes had lost the entirety of its outer layer in places; it should have been thrown out years ago. Caribeeners resided in the rock walls, exposed to the elements, waiting for ropes to be strung through. The guides didn't watch the people they were belaying, and didn't know how to belay correctly in the first place. One of the three guides had never actually been canyoning; instead, he was a rafting guide filling the quota. More often than not, I looked down to find them stepping on the ropes. However, despite the blatant disregard for safety, we screamed and laughed and descended through waterfalls in a steep canyon pretty much made of awesome.

Thursday morning we went to the thermal mineral baths situated directly under the waterfall near our hostel, where the main activity comprised of the sadistic but refreshing soak in scalding water followed by immersing oneself directly under water diverted from the falls. A couple of us then walked up into the hills opposite the town, past farmers and horses and donkeys and corn and tree tomato crops, to look down onto the town from the other side of the valley before catching the bus back to Quito... which was an experience in itself. We managed to find ourselves on the receiving end of action taken by the indigenous tribes as the protest a certain water law– not really sure of the specifics. Anyway, it involved roads blocked by burning trees, riot police, and a long, long detour through tiny dirt roads and rural agricultural regions directly through a series of volcanos and alongside Cotopaxi as it rose up from the plains. The Páramo forming the base of the perfect cone disappeared into the clouds, leaving the slightest miniscule amount of the snowcap peeking below. However, as we passed the mountain we were able to look back to the peak, glowing bright with late afternoon sunlight light as it towered above us.

I'm heading out of contact and into the wild again for a bit. Talk to yall when I get back in three weeks or so.