Leaving Colombia, through Ecuador and down to Lima

Currently in the first Starbucks I’ve found in South America on the Pacific waterfront in the well-off Miraflores district of Lima, Peru (that’s the capital, for my American amigos…)

My initial trip from Salento to Popayan had been delayed by some coke-head Dutch bird begging me to stay one extra day as she didn’t want to travel on the Colombian buses in FARC territory on her own, which was probably fair enough- not that I’m exactly Jason Bourne.  However, she then got a better offer of a lift from a London-based South African couple who were ‘flash-packing’, driving through South America, so I was on my own just a day later.  There are 2 things in the world I have no time for:  weakness of any form and being f*cked about, unnecessarily, by other people.   Needless to say, that was her off the Christmas card list.

Anyway in Popayan, after hearing some local advice, I had to persuade some people that, despite my initial enthusiasm, overnight bus rides through FARC/ bandit territory were not a good idea.  No matter how big and tough you (think you) are, if you have an AK muzzle up your nostril and end up without laptop, camera, passport and wallet, you will look like a knob for not waiting a couple of hours and going in daylight.   I also pointed out that this was coming from the guy who was quite happy to visit the West Bank, on Pre-Afghan leave, so ‘over caution’ is not really an issue.   Subsequently about 6 of us got the 10 hr bus on Friday morning to the Ecuadorian border.  The only noteworthy thing we saw was some church built into the side of a valley, near the border town of Ipiales, which was worth a look- even if you’re not remotely interested in churches, which my Catholic education ensured I’m not.

View of church at Ipiales from road.

 

... and from in front.

 

Once we’d had our passports stamped on the Colombian side, it was just a stroll over the bridge to the Ecuadorian side.  It is possible to just stroll back and forth, without any checks, carrying whatever you want, but apparently it becomes an issue when trying to leave from, say, an airport, and you’re required to return to your arrival point to get a stamp.  The Senorita at the counter there started gibbering at 100mph, so I had to clarify that “No entendiendo nada!”, (“I understand nothing”), much to the delight of everyone present, so she switched to English.   After a cab to the bus depot and buying some tickets, all paid for in US$ as Ecuador has no currency of its own, it was a straight forward 5 hrs to the capital Quito, and we got there about midnight.  I’m sure this is a different arrival in Ecuador to how Julian Assange of Wikileaks would have imagined himself arriving.  Sadly for him the only place in Latin America he will be going is Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.

 

Border crossing from Colombia to Ecuador.
 

 

In Quito we headed to the Casa Secret Garden hostel, which had been recommended, and we were let in and pointed to rooms by security guards wearing full body-armour, with ballistic plates, which was an interesting touch.  In the morning we saw the dynamic of the hostel was that there was a very arrogant and rude Frenchman (who I actually warmed to) in charge with a couple of pleasant, but stressed English guys working for him- which was an unnatural arrangement.

Rooftop bar/ restaurant at Secret Garden Hostel, Quito.

On the first day in Quito we just went for a walk around the city centre, around the old town, up some church for good views etc.  On the way back the Aussie guy was navigating back to the hostel through some ‘short cut’, with map fully opened, extended in both arms, just in case we didn’t look enough like tourists.  I made the observation to some girl that the area we were in, about 2 blocks from the hostel didn’t seem the best, though I’m not sure exactly why my 6^th sense was on form.  Anyway, an SUV drove straight up to me and the smartly dressed woman driving shouted at me in broken, but to-the-point English “This is bad neighbourhood!  Get out!” which seemed like sound advice, so off we strolled back to the main road, and the long way back to the hostel, without incident.

Downtown Quito, Ecuador.
 

Main Square in Quito

That evening there was a plan to go out to the main ‘going out’ bit of Quito, being organised by the same old coke-head bird who had turned up in the same hostel.  I very much like the idea of not having to organise anything when somebody else is doing so, “Lead, follow or get out of the way” is a sound policy to observe, and I hopped in a cab and followed.  However, after being lead as part of a dozen-strong procession up and down various streets, apparently on the off chance we might bump into some friends of hers, who might be about, my sense of humour began to strain.  Once there was then a head count of how many people wanted cocaine, and she started going up to every single person in the street asking them for it, I definitely felt it was time to make my excuses and just get the f*ck out of the area.  Each to their own, cocaine is very much part of Western culture, and I don’t really care what my friends do, but it certainly doesn’t improve the quality of any company and I’m seriously not going to end up in a South American jail- regardless of how much writing material that may offer, in 20 yrs time!!

The next day, the only thing to do was to head to what an English guy in the hostel referred to as ‘That line thing’- The Equator.  It was about 90 mins drive from Quito, and it was quite a good set up.  There also seemed to be some kind of party on as it was a Sunday, and we could get beer there, which apparently we couldn’t in Quito, so we got drunk on the equator, as it seemed like the thing to do.  We then got back to Quito and discovered you can actually buy ‘grog’ on a Sunday, so we did and had a good party in the hostel, and I considered spending an extra night in Quito.

 

'That line thing'  The Equator.
 

 

Marking the Equator, as seemed appropriate!

Fortunately in the morning my decision making process was facilitated by the Frenchman throwing us all out of the hostel for drinking on a Sunday.  Some of the others found this strange and unusual as we’d been perfectly welcome to drink there the night before and were apparently being thrown out for no reason.  However, having been a soldier for 10 years, it seemed entirely in keeping with the level of logic I have come to expect- and I paid up and headed to the bus depot on my own.  No hard feelings.

At the bus depot I asked for a bus to Lima, but they said there was only one going as far as the border, leaving in 5 minutes, so I just thought “Inshallah”, bought a ticket and jumped on.  Once on the bus, I checked whereabouts on the border it was going, and it was a town called Huaquillas (f*ck knows how you pronounce that), and the Lonely Planet’s only advice was “Stay away”, so I thought that should be quite interesting as I was the only white ‘gringo’ on the bus, due to arrive at 2AM…

During the trip, I initially spent my time gawping out of the window at the mountainous jungle, in between reading about Jack Reacher’s adventures in the latest Lee Child novel.  At about 6PM, roughly last light on the Equator, we got out for a 20 minute leg stretch and some food, before heading on into the night.  I fell asleep against the window with my arm round my day-sack (black not camouflaged) that has my laptop, camera, passport etc in it, and when I woke up about 0130, I was the only passenger still on the bus.  As we got into Huaquillas it was completely deserted, although well lit.  I wondered what my options were going to be, maybe head to the border itself and find a dark corner to sleep until it opened or maybe get filled in by some locals who had never seen a gringo, but assumed I was an American millionaire.

However, the 2 bus drivers pointed me in the direction of a hotel, which they said would be open, so I strolled off down the deserted street towards it.  On the way, I spotted a guard dog lying sleeping and it suddenly jumped up and ran towards me- which was nice. 

On my 2010 tour to Afghanistan, I once had a guard dog charge at me and a couple of Americans as we strolled through a village, next to our base.  While I remember that particular Afghan dog as being about the size of a horse, it was probably closer to a Jack Russell, but I did draw and aim my pistol quickly enough to win the Americans’ approval:  “Woah man, he’s like Clint Eastwood!”  Fortunately for that dog, its chain caught it about 10 feet away from us, as I was still taking the 11lb pressure on the first round of a de-cocked Sig-Sauer, so it avoided getting ‘Lit the f*ck up’, as shooting a chained up dog, no matter how rabid and unpleasant, would not be very sporting.  Obviously shooting a chained up Jihadi/ IRA terrorist would be fine, though.

The Ecuadorian dog, however, had no chain, I had no Sig-Sauer, just a civvy Bergen and daysack, and some positive vibes, as it got to about a meter from me, snarling away.  Thankfully, it got distracted by something else and ran off down the road,  I spotted the owner of the dog, who was apparently guarding a hotel, and I got let in, paid $8, and got my head down for a couple of hours.

 

Huaquillas, as seen from my 'modest' hotel room.

 

In the morning I took a stroll around, found an internet café to check in with the FaceBook Ops Room, and then went about crossing the border.  Like anywhere else in the 3^rd world, there was no shortage of helpful fixers, of the ‘Dell Boy’ mould who could sort out my exit stamp, get me over the border, and no doubt put me on a donkey all the way to Lima.  Between them, I managed to get my passport exit stamped, and then walked over the border.

Just about to stroll into Peru- in pursuit of a razor!

On the other side of the border I was taken by cab to the town of Tumbes, where I could get a bus all the way to Lima.  I was having a good chat with the cabby in Spanglish, and he said he’d been a ‘soldado’ in the Peruvian army, and he was loving the fact I’d been to Iraq and Afghanistan.  There is some kind of bond between all soldiers around the world- if they’re not actually shooting at each other.  Once at Tumbes he took me to the bank where I could change my US$ into Peruvian ‘Sols’, and then he dropped me at the bus station.  As I went to pay him, he smiled, took a 50 Sol note from my hand, jumped in the cab and drove off- and I was a bit slow to realise what he’d done, as I was still doing the maths and translation in my head.  We’d agreed US$5, which is approx. 15 SOL, but he’d played the ambiguity, ‘lost in translation’ card and taken the 50, before I realised.  I think I couldn’t quite believe another soldier would do that- especially with the fact I was twice his size and, generally speaking, people don’t f*ck around with me.

Unfortunately, another reminder that no matter how street wise you may think you are, there are scum all over the world who can be that little bit quicker.  Rather than sulking though, I just had to put that down to an over confident ‘intercepted pass’ and I was metaphorically looking over my shoulder at the guy racing down the pitch and scoring a try behind me.  Sh*t, happens, lesson learned.

Anyway, I then got my ticket and waited to get on the bus, which didn’t go until 3 that afternoon.  The bus to Lima was a big, double-decker, which was reasonably comfortable and I just looked at the ‘desert meets the ocean’ landscape in the North, until it got dark, slept all night, then read Jack Reacher’s adventures in the morning until we got to Lima about lunchtime.  One thing, if nothing else, I’ve learned from the army is the ability to be patient, and just sit and wait for things to happen- like arriving at your destination.  However, I will say that long journeys are best done, hungover with no sleep, as you will go out like a light, and feel fine at the other end.  ‘Concurrent activity’, ‘Anticipation’ and all that other rubbish officers like to say.

Desert meets ocean, in Northern Peru.

Desert meets ocean, about an hour or so North of Lima.

Once at Lima there was a Senorita with a clip-board at the bus station who was organising cabs, and for some reason she looked at me and assumed I was an English speaking tourist, needing one…  Anyway, she sorted me out with a cab to the Miraflores district, where there was a hotel that had been recommended to me.  She wrote down on a piece of paper that it was 15 Sols.  I then confirmed with the cab driver, who could speak good English, the exact address, and he started playing the ‘mis-hearing’ game like his mate in Tumbes, and was saying that it was 50 Sols:  once bitten, twice shy.  I grabbed his arm and dragged him back to the woman with the clipboard and confirmed that the price was still 15 Sols, which it was.  I then gave him a quick introduction to me that began with “Listen in, d*ckhead!”  I explained that I’d been f*cked over in Tumbes, and then explained that if he tried the same thing, I would do to him what I wanted to do to the other guy, which he seemed to ‘comprenday’ quite clearly.   He then drove me to my hotel, and took his 15 Sol very gratefully.    

Despite my first impressions of Peruvians, I have come to really like Lima and Peru- even if I have not yet ventured far out of Miraflores the American/ Western , Diplomatic area.  There is a spectacular waterfront, with people paragliding at all times of the day, every day, and there is that capital ‘buzz’ that I always enjoy- even if the weather is a bit colder and greyer than my ideal.  I also enjoyed the Cervice fish meal, and thoroughly recommend it.

 

Lima- Miraflores waterfront, onto the Pacific.

 

Miraflores waterfront.

Right, next priority is to get to Cusco/ Machu Picchu, one of the wonders of the world, by Saturday morning…  As England are playing rugby, and apparently there’s a bar there where it will defo be on!