Round two of the monthly one week trips and I returned to Casa de Marmol and my new friend Irma and her family. I added a night in her Riobamba hostel going and coming. It is a nice halfway-ish point between Cuenca and Quito, and makes the length of the bus trip (5-6 hours Cuenca to Riobamba) bearable.
I arrived at Casa de Marmol in the early afternoon, and Irma invited me to go with her and her family for Sunday lunch. There is a criollo (Venezuelan) restaurant nearby that they chose and I was glad to go there. I’d eaten there on my last trip and really enjoyed it. But it was made better with family. I had caldo de pata to start (cow’s foot soup, a yummy broth with a bone that had tasty cartilaginous goo to munch on). Second course was the same as last time — ensalada, potatoes with a sauce, rice — but this time lamb instead of rabbit. Saving the cuy for the next visit. Dessert was a little bit of pineapple, and the drink was avena (oat milk). Totally delicious, and Irma’s young granddaughter misbehaved charmingly, riding her small trike around the restaurant. Nobody minded.
After our late lunch, Irma’s husband invited me to go with him up to his place in the mountains above Riobamba. He runs a charity that renovates living spaces for families that live in more remote areas. And so he knows the country quite well, and I enjoyed the ride and the guide. We spent a very nice couple of hours watering plants and enjoying the amazing view — Chimborazo was cloudy but the clouds were beautiful, and we had a panoramic view of Riobamba and the surrounding small towns. Cold cold cold and windy; July is winter below the equator. Achachay!
After a restful sleep and a great breakfast courtesy of Irma (fruit, granola, and yogurt; ham on a roll; and coffee — I declined the omelet) I was on the bus to Machachi. The usual bad bus movies; no subtitles and low volume so I just watched the views roll by out the window. Irma had predicted three to three-and-a-half hours but it was closer to two-and-a-half. The bus was hauling, and the usual brief stops were very quick.
A word about buses. You can buy tickets at the terminal for your destination, or you can just get on and pay cash. I buy tickets out of habit, and that way you get a seat number to kick someone out of. The bus has regular stops along the way, and people get on and off constantly. You can flag down the bus at random places. Very few people travel the entire route. Buses have a driver, and another person who runs the rest; this person handles baggage, collects tickets and money, and generally keeps track of who has paid to go how far. Some buses have bathrooms, but in my experience they are never ever used. The bus will very occasionally — once per trip? — make a stop of a few minutes and that is your cue to jump off and find a place to go. Sometimes a pay bathroom (ten cents mostly), sometimes a restaurant, sometimes the bus office. This is why I limit the length of my bus trips. My bladder is old, and even with restricted liquid intake prior to departure, the bouncing bus takes a toll. It’s organized chaos, but it works well, is slow but extremely cheap, and everyone knows the rules.
I was met in Machachi by Johana, my mixto (4×4 pickup truck that serves as a taxi service in remote areas) driver who took me for the 45 minute drive to The Secret Garden.
The Secret Garden, a definite splurge for me, is one of those Insta-famous places that YouTubers love to post about. Known for their Hobbit Houses in the ground, they also have Birdhouses above the vegetation line, cabins, and group bunk beds. A Birdhouse was my choice. By Ecuadorian standards, it’s very expensive all-inclusive glamping. My Birdhouse was slightly larger than my double bed and had electricity. When I came in it was roasting hot from what I thought was a space heater. That heat went away though, and the office says it’s only a humidifier. Hot air comes out sporadically so I’m mostly cold, and confused. The bathrooms are down the hill. You can can your can on the can, and poop while looking at Cotopaxi.
My initial take was that this is a Very Groovy Place, and to the extent I ever was, I am no longer a Very Groovy Person. Lots of comparatively young people sitting in the somewhat small lodge strumming guitars, munching on falafel balls, and wearing obligatory ponchos which are thoughtfully provided to give everyone a uniform uniform. I just mindlessly booked here thinking it would be fun.
And it will be because I shall make it so, I tell myself. I can sit in my Birdhouse and look directly at Cotopaxi, I tell myself. But I can’t help thinking what Kirk would think of all this. He would not mind all of this one little bit, because he likely would not be here. He would have done his due diligence, sussed out the Grooviness, and vetoed it irascibly and immediately. If for no other reason: communal mealtime.
I’m slowly finding, though, that I’m a different person as a solo traveler than I was traveling as part of a couple. The Secret Garden is full of couples and groups, and as a solo traveler, you definitely need to put on your extrovert hat and gently put yourself out there. Be pleasant, ask about them, don’t talk too much about yourself until asked. It’s a very international crowd with lots of different languages, with a few North Americans sprinkled in, and while English is usually a common factor, it isn’t always. After the initial shock, I found the challenge fun, and the multilingual young people were generally welcoming to this non-young solo guy. I was glad to have found that my initial impression was wrong.
I went to 5pm activity sign up and snack time (crudite, dips). I did have a very nice, if fractured, conversation with someone’s mother. The only other person I saw who was remotely close to my age. She spoke only French, and my high school French has evidently been squeezed out of my remaining limited brain capacity by Spanish. So I walked to the WiFi spot (they limit it to one area and for short periods twice a day, so you can Enjoy Nature) and downloaded French into my Google Translate app. And then we had a pleasant, if stilted, conversation.
Dinner at seven was somewhat comida típica (basic Ecuadorian food), slightly elevated. Seco de pollo (chicken in a sauce), a salad, and what everyone thought were two rolls but were mashed potato shaped like a potato. Basically it was the second course of a typical almuerzo (Ecuadorian lunch) without the first soup course. No caldo de pata for this crowd.
I had a Pilsener. That, along with Club, is a default beer in Ecuador. Basically, a Bud. It’s not generally a great idea to have alcohol at altitude if you are freshly arrived to the heights. I am not, and one isn’t going to hurt me. Wisely, everyone around me was drinking water. I sensed some askance looks whenever I took a swig, as if they knew better than me. Whatever.
I introduced myself to the people around me at one of the three family style dinner tables. A mother with I think three older kids, one of whom was in the Peace Corps. All very nice, although the college-age boy called me “sir” all the time. Very annoying. Across from me was a quiet man there alone for the second time. He was a climber who wanted to summit Cotopaxi, and the first time had been turned away halfway up by an ice storm. Yesterday apparently was the first day in two weeks that anyone was able to summit. Good luck, quiet dude. And next to me was a young couple from Switzerland; he Belgian, she Italian. Isn’t the EU wonderful? They had rented a car and were driving their trip.
My group had various pleasant dinner conversations. They were all amazed that I lived in Ecuador. None of them had ever heard of Cuenca. As I learned, most people fly into Quito. And from there they do some combination of Amazon, Baños/Mindo, and the Galapagos. Maybe a day trip north of Quito, to Otavalo. For a lot of them, there is little awareness of an Ecuador south of the easy trip to Cotopaxi from Quito. I asked if anyone was going to Riobamba. “What is there to do there?” Only, I thought to myself, Chimborazo, the highest mountain on the planet (not Everest, Google it) and the place on earth closest to the sun, among other things. But I dissembled and politely asked them more about their various trips.
When dessert came, the staff asked each person if they wanted dessert. Nearly all declined. They did not ask the guy with the beer. It was plopped down in front of me without question. Good call, staff. Intuitive.
I slept, finally and fitfully, but comfortably, if a bit chilly, in my Birdhouse. Awoke early to shower before the crowd hit, and prepared for my day trip to Cotopaxi.
After a quick, communal breakfast, the Cotopaxi group piled in the van for the journey. Lots of participants, which drove the sliding scale price down. Thank you, kids. I sat next to yet another mother with older kids, and…she was from Cuenca! Originally. Lives in Jacksonville FL now, but keeps an apartment in Cuenca. We had much to talk about, and I liked her quite a bit.
Mountain biking down was an add-on. Having done that at Chimborazo, I decided to skip that. Glad I did. The hike up to the refugio at 4864 meters was steeper than Chimborazo and much more strenuous. I paced myself, and made it there, but with great effort. Too late for the further hike a bit farther up, to a glacier. Which was fine. I was in the snow and ice where I was. It’s all water, right? And I’ve glaciered before.
My glacial ascent gave me time to enjoy the refugio. Had a hot chocolate, ate my provided snacky pack, shared my remaining Riobamba mercado fruit with my neighbors, ceremoniously and surreptitiously scattered a little Kirk over the wall, and gathered my strength for the descent.
You’d think that going down would be the easy part. It’s not. It’s just a different skill set. Going up is incremental steps with frequent rest stops. Going down is all mindfulness. Each step is a conscious decision to avoid sliding off into the void. My descent was made much more entertaining by a young geology student who greatly enjoyed explaining all the rocks to me. I managed fine with only one minor slip and enjoyed the return trip from the comfort of our van, while most, but not all of the young people biked down.
I must have good volcano karma. Just like at Chimborazo, the morning clouds lifted and we had an all day spectacular view of Cotopaxi. I can’t emphasize how rare that can be.
Relaxed a bit upon returning, booked myself for an easy next-afternoon waterfall hike, checked WhatsApp and email in my appointed limited time, and headed for dinner. Where my charm offensive totally failed. I took an available place between two new groups who ignored me despite my tentative efforts, to the point where they didn’t even pass me the salad and bread. The perils of potentially being invisible. At least the staff brought pizza (no comida típica tonight), and I asked my tablemates for the rest. At first I was a bit down on myself. As the dinner wore on, I found the group to my left was obnoxious in obvious ways. Hassling staff, derogatory comments, throwing attitude. And, perhaps unwisely, downing copious amounts of wine. The group to my right seemed nicer, but seemed a mostly insular family. I thought about the solo climber at dinner the previous night, and I was glad I made an effort to talk to him. To the left, I’m better off. To the right, their loss. At least there was no attitude regarding my Pilsener.
I have a smile I’m starting to use for such occasions. It’s slightly more than a Mona Lisa, and much less than an idiot grin. I hope it signals “I’m content with myself in this situation” and not sarcasm or judgement.
All told, a good day. And, perhaps as slight recompense, the humidifier pumped out heat, and I had a perfectly clear starry night sky to admire.
Up around five the next morning. While getting ready to get my ahead-of-the-crowd shower, I saw flashes of lights going up the side of the volcano. Apparently the summiters start ascending to the second base camp very early in the morning. It was magical to briefly see their twinkling.
I got a hot tea and went out onto the deck to see the sunrise with a few nice folks. One couple had a drone and a lot of equipment; maybe YouTubers. From Philly but now living in Paraguay. They were on their way to Cuenca (yay!) so we had a brief chat about the Cajas, the national park outside the city.
Went to get a refill of my tea and reused my teabag. I was instantly flooded with a memory — my mom’s first job was at a ceramics factory with four other women. They were all very poor, and shared one teabag among them every day. They rotated, so that a different person every day would get the weakest tea. I so often am wrapped up with memories of Kirk that I forget the others who have been in my life and gotten me here. And it was comforting to think about my mom, and imagine her here. All the younguns would absolutely have adopted her as their mascot.
Spent the morning reading my Kindle in various places. Burroughs. I moved between the lodge, my Birdhouse, and an indoor hammock room, all with a view of Cotopaxi now obscured by clouds. In the move back to the lodge from my Birdhouse there sat the quiet climber. Second time was the charm. And he confirmed that the lights I saw around five were probably him. They left the second refuge around midnight and summited around dawn. That made me very happy, and peaceful.
Also had one of several nice chats with my favorite person I met, Rachel. She and her partner Sam are traveling basically everywhere, much of the time finding online volunteering gigs to defray their expenses. They came to volunteer at The Secret Garden after a similar gig at a coffee farm above Ibarra. And from here, maybe the Galapagos. Maybe not. There are apps and websites to use to get these gigs, but she often bypasses them and directly contacts places she wants to go using WhatsApp; ergo, she is at The Secret Garden. That impressed me. She had an intrepid spirit and beatific manner which was genuine and engaging, and I found her to be personally inspiring.
After lunch (minestrone) I went on a two hour waterfall hike with mostly Brits and Aussies, with a Dutch woman and an Ecuadorian family (mom, dad, two sons) thrown in. The hike was not for the faint of heart, but was not terribly strenuous; I was never out of breath. You had to wear waders/gum boots/Wellies (pick your country) and there was a fair amount of fording and scrambling — up, down, and around wet rocks and the stream, using ropes and no ropes. That said, with a steady slow pace and some mindfulness (always think of the two steps after your current one), I was absolutely fine. Better actually than some of the younguns who slipped and fell and were also fine.
The group was very friendly. As the pace of the single file hiking line ebbed and flowed, the order changed and I had very nice conversations with several people, some of which I did not initiate (!). A Dutch physiotherapist who is in Ecuador for two months and is definitely going to Cuenca (yay!) was particularly interesting. Also the madre and padre of the family; we chatted a bit in Spanish (haven’t been able to use that often on this trip).
On arrival at the waterfall, lots of people went swimming in the frigid water, including mamá y sus dos hijos. I didn’t think to bring a swimsuit on this trip, so not an option for me. But I definitely would have. There was also a trail dog that walked with us there and back, and that’s also a thing on the Quilatoa trails. So after the hike I, um, borrowed some dog food from the storage shed for Quilatoa.
Skipped five o’clock snack for some Birdhouse time — I didn’t need to sign up for anything and I wanted to organize my departure tomorrow. I did have a tea before leaving the lodge, and my favorite Beatles song “Across The Universe” was in the mix. Limitless undying love that shines around me like a million suns. Indeed. Hello Kirk. I started to tear up and left before I got gratuitous.
After organizing and napping, headed out to the lodge for my final dinner (chicken leg quarter, cole slaw, mashed potatoes) and the high school aged son from the Ecuadorian family asked if he could join me for dinner to practice his English. Thank goodness. One of the main benefits of these trips is total immersion in Spanish, and The Secret Garden has been anything but. I spoke Spanish, he spoke English, and our intercambio was interesting. Then, off to bed early for a mid-morning departure to Chugchilan via Latacunga for my Quilatoa adventure.
So, The Secret Garden bottom line. At about $90 per night for basic private glamping, it’s very expensive given I normally spend $20 to $30 a night max for a private room with a private bath. No frills group hostel accommodations can be $5 to $10. But except for tours The Secret Garden is all inclusive. And it is absolutely unique. Food was good, staff was great, vibe was fun. I will miss peeing while looking at Cotopaxi. Would I come back? No reason to. But ultimately I’m glad I came.
On arrival I thought I’d made a huge mistake. But as my stay at The Secret Garden progressed, and I reflected on Irma and Casa de Marmol, I realized that Kirk’s perspective was tangled in mine. And when I focused on how I alone would enjoy it, I found that I mostly did.
Maybe like the quiet solo climber, I need to try again.
