My Trek Through Indigenous Ecuador

On Monday, I left the cosmopolitan hills of Quito with one mission: to learn about rural Andean life. My friend, Heathrow, and I went to the Terminal Terrestre and caught the first bus to Latacunga. The Trolébus ride to the terminal was an advenutre in-and-of itself. Heathrow and I both had large backpacks and came very close to taking out the shorter Ecuadorians.
Three hours of philosophical discussion later, Heathrow and I arrived in Latacunga, a small, Andean city which has as many barbershops as Manhattan has Starbucks franchises. We checked into a cute hostel which offered cappuccinos, homemade cookies, and crayons, only to discover that some of our friends from Quito were also there. After we unpacked, we went for a walk around town. Downtown Quito may be a UN World Heritage site, but Latacunga and Ibarra are both more beautiful.
The next morning, Heathrow and I woke up early to catch a bus to Laguna Quilotoa. The three hour ride was surreal. We zoomed past stunning, green scenery as locals chatted away in Quichua. I tried to ask a few women questions, only to discover that they did not even speak Spanish. When we finally arrived in Quilotoa, a small town of fewer than 15 buildings, we booked into a hostel (the only one with hot, running water), ate lunch, and embarked on a hike around the laguna.
Laguna Quilotoa is one of the most stunning sites in all of South America (please Google it). It is an old volcano that has turned into a large, green lake. The edges are surrounded by mountains. Heathrow and I hiked around the top. It took us 4.5 hours and drained us of our energy. Not only were we hiking around a precarious ridge with perpetually changing elevation. We were at an altitude of roughly 12,000 feet. When I looked down the mountain, I saw clouds.
Heathrow and I got back to the hostel just in time for dinner. We met a taciturn Swiss couple and three dishy European boys who were willing to debate politics and history for three hours. After dinner, I went to bed. As you can probably imagine, I was very cold. Being near the equator does not keep you warm when you are up, above the clouds.
On Wednesday morning, Heathrow and I took a bumpy, wet camioneta ride to Chugchilán, another small Ecuadorian town. We spent the day relaxing, and the evening debating with the dishy Europeans. Just before dinner, we realized that we would have to catch a 3 am bus so that we would be able to visit a famous indigenous market in Saquisili.
At 2:30 AM, I climbed down from my bunk bed to get ready for the bus, only to discover that Heathrow had never returned to the bunk room. I spent fifteen minutes getting dressed, brushing my teeth, and packing my backpack. Still no Heathrow. At this point, I was concerned. What if Heathrow had been kidnapped in the Andean cloudforest? Would it be better to continue on to a town with cell phone reception, or stay put and look for my friend? Was I, his travel partner, also vulnerable? I threw on my backpack and went to find Heathrow. First, I asked three drunk Swiss tourists if they had seen Heathrow or our European friends. Surprisingly, they were no help whatsoever. I finally found Heathrow in the common room. He had fallen asleep on the couch while talking to the Europeans.
At 3:00 AM, the bus arrived. Heathrow, our European friends, and I all jumped on board. We were greeted by the smell of feces and awful Andean-Ranchero-Electronica fusion music. At 6:30, we arrived in Saquisili. We visited the animal market (a cacophony of squealing pigs and bleating goats) and several fruit stands. Then, we decided that it was time to go home. We hopped on a bus and returned to Quito.