Devil's Nose, Cuenca, and the River

October 16, 2004

Wednesday night I came off the street into Casa Hood and found some friends having dinner while the nightly movie was starting up. Hanna and Rachel, the two Irish girls who went bride-jumping without me, were there with Jeff and Murray. They said they'd waited a while for me but figured I was hung up down at the foot of the mountain, which I was. I told them I was leaving Baños for Riobamba the next day, and they were too, so we vaguely planned on departing together sometime around noon.

They were nice girls. We all went out afterward, stopping into the same bars as the previous nights, running into the same people. Oscar the Ecua kid was was there, and I attempted conversation with weak success. It was the Leprechuan Bar again, with silly elves and whatnot painted in murals on the walls, and we got our multi-colored flame-shot once again; it tasted horrible. Schindler showed up too. I had my book with me that I never got to take home after the cafe, Look Homeward, Angel. At one point I saw good old Schindler staring at it with rheumy eyes, so I opened the first passage for him to read, wondering if he'd see what I saw in it, and anyway I always liked bringing a little literature into things when I could.

"Which of us has known his brother? Which of us has looked into his father's heart?...Which of us has not remained forever a stranger and alone?"

When he was done reading he looked up and said, "I hope he doesn't feel like that all the time." I laughed, and we talked about it for a while, before I said goodbye and went out into the street with the rest of the crew, where we ran into Ben, who was out looking for girls. He complained about the slim pickings. Rachel informed me that she knew judo and got into stance. "Oh, is that so," I said. "Then you'll have no problem dealing with this..." and I threw her over my shoulder and charged down the street while she screamed. Soon everyone went home but Ben and me. We got the slimmest most salty hamburgers we'd ever seen, prepared by two ten-year-old girls. It seemed like every business in Baños was run and administrated by ten-year-olds. We cut back to the hostel, everyone was sleeping.

I got up early in the morning and took my book to the cafe to read, and Schindler was there. He said goodbye in his nervous stuttering way, giving me a wet clammy hand to shake. He was a good guy. After a while I went looking for Hanna and Rachel, I was ready to leave and thought that if I didn't take off soon Baños would suck me in again for another day. I didn't want to delay too long, I had to get into Peru and down to Cusco with enough time to get licensed for the Inca Trail and find an expedition––I didn't have reservations, I thought I'd show up and fit myself in somewhere. Apparently the new rules for the Trail require you to book a month in advance, and it was way too late for that. I figured I'd get in somewhere.

When the Irish girls remained undiscovered I decided to go my way. I liked the idea of traveling alone anyway. I left a message for them with Murray, said they could find me at Hotel Oasis in Riobamba, then with farewells and exchanges of email I grabbed up my rucksack and lit out.

Like a fool with a walnut bladder, I bought a jug o' water for the bus ride and slugged and slugged off it until twenty minutes in I was squirming around my seat cursing myself. These buses are toiletless and rarely stop. This happened to me in Nicaragua, and the bus driver nearly left me at the gas station when I got off to go. Now I had two hours left and could barely keep my pants unsoused. It was torture of the worst degree.

An hour passed like this, when finally the bus pulled over to let some passengers on. Knowing full well that I could be dooming myself and my backpack, I ran off the bus and told the driver I had to find el baño. He nodded, which meant nothing, and I ran into a store to beg. They denied me with little smiles. I ran to three other places and each one rejected my plea. I stole a glance at the bus and saw the driver was still standing outside, then ran like a maniac up a flight of stairs on a whim. A dentist was up there drilling on someone, but the bathroom door was open and I went for it. What followed was the most anxious two-minute urination of my history. I bolted down the stairs fearing the worst, just as the driver climbed into his seat and went into gear, and leapt onto the bus with sweet relief.

Once in Riobamba I got my pack and took a cab to the Hotel Oasis, a place my English friends had recommended. The cabby scolded me for slamming the door. I was shown a fancy-looking single room with a big corny heart on the bed. She wanted eight bucks, but I haggled her down to seven, wishing I'd gone somewhere else. It was a quiet empty place with a llama chained in the courtyard; it kept staring me down.

I went down the street, making for the train station to buy my ticket for the famous train ride the next morning––this ride was the only reason anyone ever went to this dead town. I could see why. I procured my ticket for the Nariz de Diablo, the five hour train ride that would follow a route through the country before having to negotiate a set of treacherous switchbacks down the cliffside.

That night I got into a strange mood, walking lonesome around the streets looking for a place to be, smoking cigarettes. I tried to uplift myself somehow and went into a cafe to write, but couldn't bring anything out. So I went at dusk through narrow streets and watched the smoke that rose from the pipes of lonely men in shirtsleeves leaning out of windows.

I should have been a pair of ragged claws, scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

That same night I had a strange and eery vision. I fell asleep in my room reading. In the middle of the night I woke up and opened my eyes, and I saw a little girl smile at me and dart below the foot of my bed. I sat up quickly and issued an hola? into the darkness. My first instinct was to check the door to see if the little girl had come in, but it was closed, there was no one there. Unsettled, I went back to sleep, because what else can you do with such things from the netherworld?

At five-thirty in the morn I got up to shower for the train ride, but there were no towels and no hot water. I cursed the entire establishment and threw water in my hair, then packed up and left. Once again I had to wait while the proprietor ran down the street looking for change. I swear to sweet Christ, no one in Ecuador ever has change. Ever. When I arrived at the station the roof of the train was already crowded. I was about to climb onto one of the cars when I heard my name called. It was Hanna and Rachel across the way beckoning to me. So I ran over and climbed the ladder up, situating myself nearby. It was good to see them.

The dawn was cold and clouded when we pulled out of the station. The train wound through ravines, by rivers where shepherds prodded their flock, past shanties where the peasants stood and watched. I soon discovered that this train I was on was the star of the countryside. Everywhere we past we were met with waves of enthusiasm. Little children blasted out of doors and ran alongside us waving furiously. I realized why. The porters were throwing handfuls of candy. I saw that the children were already posted up on hillocks waving in anticipation. As soon as the candy hit ground they went for it and forgot everything in a mad scramble. I laughed my ass off. The greatest moment came when the train slowed to a halt next to a schoolhouse; there was a roar of children, and they came in a rush around the brick in their red uniforms, all smiles, waving and waving. Copious amounts of candy were thrown, and they dashed and leapt everywhere for it. "Gracias amigos!" they kept shouting, eliciting more candy. I wished I had candy to throw. We kept on, cars on the highway honked at us, police wagons bleeped sirens and waved––this was the first time I'd ever heard a siren blare in a positive tone. I waved at the locals, I gave double thumbs-up, inventing new salutations to greet everybody.

The clouds had cleared and the sun was coming down hard on our rooftop. The poor pale Irish girls were getting rotisseried. We finally came to the infamous descent down the cliffside known as the Devil's Nose. We screeched down the rails, terrible precipices looming inches away. Coming around a corner there was a grinding sound and the whole train lurched and wobbled, jolting everyone––it had derailed in the worst possible place, at a bend in the switchback.

I peered over the side to where the cliff dropped into nothingness. Everyone was looking at everyone else to see if there might be some kind of assurance to be found, but none of us knew what this meant. The porters climbed off looking worried, and they began tearing cactus fronds from the ground and placing them on the rails; this was some kind of technique they used to get the cars back on the rail. I prepared to leap off at any moment. But the train moved forward slowly and regained the track, and we were off again without dying. We finally came back around to Alausi where we were to catch a bus to Cuenca. I climbed off the roof and grabbed a sandwich and water for the bus ride.

It was the worst bus ride of all time. A French guy fell into the tiny seat beside me and smooshed me into the window. I tried to fall asleep, but only rattled along miserably. But out the window, when I came out of a fitful sleep, I saw beautiful mountains far-reaching, pastures traced with makeshift barbwire fences, rivers and streams and, hell, dells. There were no guardrails, and the bus veered past all kinds of near-dooms, climbing higher. We came into an expansive valley that looked like the storybook kind. There was a high promontory of rock like an eagle's beak standing statuary in the midst, and a pearl-white palace standing not far off, gleaming in the sun. I had to rub my eyes for that one, looking around to see the eyes of everyone else.

When we pulled into Cuenca I was feeling about half-past dead. We got off and waited for our packs to be handed down from the roof. This is where I met Max, a crew-cut English guy who seemed to have the right attitude for the whole scheme of things. "Come on along with us," I said. He did. The four of us took a cab to Hostal Tinku, near the river.

We took cold showers and got spruced up for dinner. We were all starved, and that night we spent ten dollars on a meal of veal with potatoes and salad, followed by fruit and ice cream with coffee. This was where we found out that it was the weekend of Ecuador's elections, and no alcohol could be served throughout. It ruined our plans of going out for a wild night on the town. We considered alternatives. "I do believe we should buy beer at the store and go walking by the river," I suggested. They agreed with this, and we went out to find a store to sell to us. We haggled at the first place we came to, and he allowed us two oversized bottles apiece, as long as we brought the empty bottles back in the morn, which we agreed to. Then we found a nice plot of grass right beside the river, where we sat talking for hours, and watched the shallow river pass over smooth boulders under the hidden moon.