Cotopaxi and Quilotoa

Update: 6

Getting out of bed at 6am on a Saturday morning usually requires something extra to snap you into consciousness. Some people choose coffee, we used the tried and trusted "Almost Get Your Bag Snatched" technique.

We'd arrived at The Biking Dutchman very enthusiastic about our imminent bike trip. (Well, to be honest, Tam was excited about the pedalling and I was excited about the downhills). As people arrived and we started making acquaintances, a local started helping us tidy up our bags. Or so we thought. As I was across the road getting coffee (unnecessarily as it turns out) this is the story as Tam tells it: The helper smiles as he moves the bags (from where to where and why no one will ever know, but it looked official and no-one wanted to doubt him) when suddenly another local launches himself into a dive made famous by South American footballers and drops coins everywhere. As everybody looks at him and bends down to help, Tam feels Leesie.org's photographic equipment slowly moving away behind her. Fortunately she grabbed it, so all you happy readers sitting at your desks can thank my wife for your weekly emails. Or not, as the case may be....

Anyway, enough of that - nothing was taken, and we're both hawk-eyes now.

The weekend comprised us being driven, with our bikes, to Cotopaxi (about 5,900m) although we were dropped off at about 4,300m and let loose for the downhill. Ripping up volcanic dust at about 30km/h (some less sane participants did it faster - one soon to be certified individual actually ramped his way down) is an experience not many of us will forget. We lunched at the bottom and contemplated the rain (that falls nearly every afternoon at the moment) and the impact it would have on the rest of the day's cycling. Some donned their waterproofs and started pedalling to the park gate, others wimped out, put their bikes on the roof and were driven.  I've done most of my cycling in Britain and am well familiarised with the Cycling in Mud and Water in Face to Enjoyment ratio (CiMWiF:E = misery²) which I place somewhere close to daytime television. So I joined the girls in the truck while my delicate petal of a wife (yes the same vigilante mentioned above) went it alone. (Any correspondence relating to domestic roles will not be entered into - ed.).

At the end of the mud-fest, everyone climbed back into the 4x4 and we made our way to Quilotoa, an extinct volcano, now crater lake, at about 3,800m.

Arriving at sunset (see pics), the group had various levels of enthusiasm for our quarters. The place is run by an indigenous family and, while warm and hospitable, did not quite match the photograph of a pleasant youth hostel that some of our ranks had been shown in the brochure. To say it was basic is an understatement, so rather than list what it didn't have, I'll tell you what it did:

• Electricity (good)
• Running water (good)
• Brown running water (not so good)
• Communal toilets (ok)
• Next to the dormitory (not ideal)
• With swing doors and no latch (not good)
• When your wife has eaten something dodgy and got gippo guts (pretty bad)
• Cooked meals (good)
• Newly slaughtered guinea pig lying in its own excrement on the kitchen floor (not good)

You get the idea.

Fortunately for all of us, everyone seemed to come to terms with the situation and nobody slept in the truck. Hats off to the Canadian couple who, for their first trip out of Vancouver chose this and still smiled. (If I'd known, I would have suggested they dip their toes in something not quite so bad but along the same lines like, say, the Amalfi Hotel in Brighton).

As if we hadn't had enough exercise the day before, Sunday's first activity involved hiking down to the lake in the crater (fantastic experience) and hiking back up what, if only slightly steeper, could pass for a cliff (about as much fun as cycling in mud).

Finally, the piece de resistance: a 22km downhill on tar. More my thing.  Totally exhilarating. I would have done it faster had I not (mom look away) had a blow out halfway down and have to change bikes. Fortunately my skill and experience as a downhill aficionado (read lazy bum) allowed me to handle the blowout without any tears. (Anyway, I'm sure I would have been fine. After all, I had a piece of plastic strapped to my head which keeps you alive if you happen to misjudge a hairpin bend in the high Andes and fly off.)

A top day was finished off with the truck stopping at one of the many restaurants along the Pan-American highway for food. I didn't partake in whole grilled guinea pig with claws, ears and all, but the others did. Personally, I think they should serve the little guy with the wheel from his cage, and then we'll see those Canadians laughing as they munch away on Humphrey's back leg.

I say "finished off"... that's not entirely true, as we were sitting in the jacuzzi relieving our sore muscles back at the (even more wonderful than before) Hotel San Francisco de Quito, Bruce walked in and handed us beer. With a jolt, I considered the merits of a few nights at the Quilotoa Cabanas.

We're probably off to the Galapagos on Friday, so next update should be from there.

Take it easy, and please send us news.