Quito – Capital on the Equator

When the plane hit the tarmac in Quito I exhaled a sigh of relief. My queasy week at sea in the Galapagos Islands was over. I could finally re-gain my land legs. But Ecuador’s capital is located 2800 metres above sea level, where altitude sickness reigns. So was it out of the frying pan and into the fire?

The Plaza Grande on Independence Square in the historic heart of Old Town Quito is a splendid hotel. Hervé the affable doorman greeted us with a broad smile. The sight – and scent – of ten dozen red roses filled the lobby.

Ecuador is the rose capital of the world, the largest exporter of cut flowers on the planet. Quito’s perpetual springtime climate, rich volcanic soil and cheap labour are why a dozen long-stemmed roses cost less than $20 in Red Deer in January. In Ecuador twenty bucks will get you a dozen dozen roses (should you ever have need of that many apologies while on vacation in South America).

Quito means “middle of the earth”, after the indigenous Quitu people who settled in this fertile valley 1500 years ago. The Incas captured Quito in 1487 but ruled for only a few decades before the Spanish Conquistadores arrived in 1534, decimating the indigenous population but leaving a legacy of beautiful colonial buildings. With its wonderfully preserved architecture, Quito is now a UNESCO world heritage site.

We had arrived late and ventured out to stretch our legs. Quito is renowned as a dangerous city, a place where petty street crime is rife. Tourists are particularly vulnerable, often relieved of wallets and cameras in broad daylight. Despite multiple warnings to avoid the streets at night we wandered aimlessly, exploring the narrow lanes, mingling with the locals, buskers and roadside vendors, enjoying the cacophonous street life. Nobody pulled a knife on us. We eventually wandered safely back to the Plaza Grande and fell peacefully into bed.

Altitude sickness struck just after midnight. I awoke gasping, dreaming I was being spun in a circle and water-boarded. Florence rang the front desk. The clerk was accustomed to these late night complaints and promptly delivered coca-leaf tea to our door. (Yes, the same stuff from which cocaine is made.) I slurped down the hot elixir and slept like a baby until our tour guide aroused us at 8am for a city tour.

After a wonderful Ecuadorian breakfast of ceviche, plantain and remarkable fresh fruit from the highlands we drove slowly through the Old Town, past the Palacio Presidential and La Compania church. We then climbed steeply up El Panecillo hill to one of Quito’s famous landmarks, a statue of the Madonna. From her pedestal high atop Panecillo, Mary has a spectacular view of the city.

Quito lies high in the Andes Mountains. This metropolis of 2,600,000 souls is home to a fifth of Ecuador’s population. I pride myself on knowing my way around strange places, how to read a map and – most importantly – how to get back to the hotel in time for dinner. Florence calls this the carto-gene. But Quito is laid out in a series of confusingly interconnected valleys. Long tunnels separate one serpentine neighbourhood from another. After we left Panecillo I hadn’t a clue where we were.

The guide told us we were driving to Mitad del Mundo (the Middle of the Earth) to visit the equator.No need to consult my malfunctioning internal compass – we were headed toward latitude 0°00’00’’. Shortly before noon, under the ashen gaze of Pichincha Volcano, we arrived at the Monument on the Equator.

Frankly, the place was a little cheesy, with a bunch of “equator” gimmicks. Apparently there are a number of peculiarities associated with being situated at zero degrees latitude: an egg will balance on a nail head and a blindfolded human is incapable of walking in a straight line. It was demonstrated that, a couple of meters north of the meridian, a tub of water drains counterclockwise, whereas south of the equator the water goes down clockwise. (Or is it the other way round?) And, amazingly, directly on the equator, water flushes straight down, spinning neither right nor left. This is known as the Coriolis effect – but despite paying $8 to witness the proof, I’m still not convinced there wasn’t some sleight-of-hand going on.

On just two days each year – the spring and fall equinox – the sun is directly overhead at noon on the equator. No shadow is cast. I checked my watch. By utter coincidence it was March 21st– the vernal equinox. I looked down. No shadow. That you can’t fake.

(By the way, at 2600 meters above sea level the Quito sun seems innocuous but is dangerously intense. It is important to cover your head – so if you forget a hat, as did my unfashion-conscious friend Senór Bubbles, employ a red plastic bag to cover your noggin.)

I am a firm believer in the “when in Rome” travel philosophy. Experiencing local culture and cuisine is fundamental to a fulfilling travel experience. After visiting the Otavalo market (and picking up an alpaca-wool sweater cheap, cheap) I was starving for some local grub. Our young tour guide Katarina suggested we sample a local delicacy known as “cuy” (at the urging of her father Alberto who doubled as driver).

And that is how I ended up staring down at a plate of whole, deep-fried guinea pig. (Don’t tell my mother.) In Ecuador cuy (rhymes with gooey) is a delicacy. But it was disconcerting to see the diminutive rodent splayed out on a bed of rice. I tentatively tasted the legs and ribs of the cute little fellow but balked at the head and feet. Alberto was overjoyed when I offered him these scrumptious remainders. Katarina shied away from the cuy, content with a smoothie. Florence ordered a steak – and averted her eyes throughout the meal.

Alberto’s non-English was equivalent to my non-Spanish. So our dinner interaction consisted mainly of polite nodding – and watching each other pick small pet bones from our teeth.

What does cuy taste like? Kind of like gamy chicken – but not duck. And totally different from Korean dog – but that’s another story.

I was ill for a month after we arrived home. I picked up a parasite somewhere in our South American travels – a nasty thing aptly named blastocystis. Not sure if it was the Panamanian street food, squid in the Galapagos or perhaps unfermented chicha broth in the Amazon. Or maybe it was Quito cuy karma.

Gerry