The Secret Garden Cotopaxi | 0.5037° S, 78.4712° W | 20191011
“If we were up there right now, we’d be drinking tea in the refugio,” I say, staring at the bright, glaciated summit surrounded by stars. “And we’d start climbing in three hours.”
It is a perfectly clear night. From our vantage point at The Secret Garden hostel, we can see the entirety of the Cotopaxi volcano. I stare longingly at the beautiful mountain I have wanted to climb for so long, trying to detach from the disappointment I’ve been carrying around for the past few days.
The riots and protests that started the day I arrived in Ecuador have increased in intensity and violence, resulting in “a state of emergency” declaration in Quito. All schools are closed. The government has relocated from Quito to Guayaquil. And every national park in the country is closed.
The civil unrest has thrown a giant wrench in our plans for attempting alpine summit bids here. We’ve done a few big hikes, but our ice axes, crampons, and other mountaineering equipment has remained at the bottom of our duffle bags, untouched.
I’m bummed out, but trying to look on the bright side: I’ve spent just over a week in one of my favorite countries, enjoying conversations with people from all over the world, and practicing my rusty Spanish.
Of course dear Jon, the best adventure buddy in the world, has said all the right things: This has been a great trip and Ecuador is awesome. Thank you for bringing me here. Don’t worry— we’ll come back to climb Cotopaxi.
The following morning, we pack our bags to head to the Quito airport. We think our trip is over. But the real adventure is just about to begin.
“Lo siento chicos. No quiero hacerlo, pero no tengo ninguna opción. Todas las calles estan cerradas.”
Sorry kids, but I don’t have an option here. All the roads are closed.
We look at each other in disbelief. The shuttle driver is telling a van full of passengers to exit his vehicle on the side of the highway, walk through hundreds of rioting protesters, and make our way to the hostel (three miles away) on foot.
The driver was supposed to drop the eight other passengers at the hostel and then take Jon and me to the airport. I ask if he can drive us just part of the way, or at least away from the protests. He refuses. We have no choice. Jon and I shoulder our bags and begin walking down the shoulder of the highway.
With my entire livelihood on me — my cameras, lenses, laptop, and all my mountaineering gear — I try to calm my nerves. Jon and I couldn’t appear more obvious as American tourists, with our massive Patagonia duffle bags and backpacks. It’s fine, I tell myself. We’ll be fine. Don’t panic.
We walk almost a mile. My shoulders burn from the weight of my luggage. I guess this is what I’ve been training for, I think grimly. Not climbing up a massive glaciated volcano, but hauling all my shit across a blockaded city.
We leave the highway, walk down a winding gravel path, and emerge on a side street. A small white car drives up next to us, and the driver rolls down his window. Do you want a ride? We say no gracias automatically, unwilling to jump in the car of a stranger.
A dondé vas? Where are you going? he asks.
Al aeropuertro.
The man shakes his head. In Spanish he says, “I can’t get you to the airport, but I can get you closer. Jump in.”
Jon and I exchange a look, and make the first of many judgement calls. Our options are so limited — we are going to trust the man driving this car because we have to. The man introduces himself as Sebastian.
As soon as we get in the car, I feel better. Sebastian and his two passengers appear to be around our age. After exchanging introductions, we chat in rapid Spanish. We commiserate over the crazy state of the city, and they apologize that our trip coincided with such a precarious time in Ecuador.
When we hit yet another massive road-block 15 minutes later, Sebastian gives us clear instructions to walk two kilometers to intersect another highway.
We make the long walk without incident. But when we arrive, we encounter three police officers. They tell us if we continue down this road, we will absolutely get robbed. I ask them what alternative options we have. They shrug, obstinate in their unwillingness to help us. I make it clear that we have to get to the airport.
One of the officers gives us an unctuous grin and says perhaps we can collaborate.
Great. Now we’re dealing with corrupt cops who want bribes.
In Spanish I say, “alright fine, what can you do for us?”
One officer says they can transport us to the next blockade, where we will then have to walk through the protesters on our own, and will encounter more protesters beyond that. Another officer seems to disagree with him.
Jon is studying a map of Quito on his phone. He points to an alternate route that goes around the mountain. I ask one of the officers if it’s possible to take that road.
He shrugs. In Spanish he says, it’s possible, maybe, but that would take forever.
With my nerves fried, and my forced calm demeanor waning, I resist the urge to succumb to frustration and anger. I want to punch this asshole.
Instead, I take a deep breath and look at Jon. We stare at his phone together, debating our options. I admit that I’m afraid of getting robbed.
After twenty minutes of sitting in the hot sun, an older couple arrive in a pickup truck and tell us to hop in. They say they will take us to Cumbaya, and from there we should be able to get a ride to the airport.
Jon and I accept another free ride from generous Ecuadorian strangers during our attempt to get out of Quito.
Less than ten minutes after jumping in the back of the truck, we hit yet another intersection blocked by burning tires and rioting locals. The man steps out of the truck, leads us through a line of protesters and points to another major highway — the same area where the shuttle driver dumped us on the side of the road this morning.
In five hours, we have encountered over a dozen blockades, and made no progress out of the city.
Portion of the highway where we got stranded twice.
“Qué significa toque de queda?”
I quickly figure out toque de queda means curfew. Anyone on the street after 3pm today will be subject to arrest — if we can’t get out of the city, we have to find somewhere to hunker down. After chatting with yet another pair of helpful locals, Jon and I make the decision to walk two miles to Sangolqui, a suburb of Quito. We find a small, seedy hotel on a quiet street. When the proprietor says that yes he has a room available, I immediately hand him my cash.
We are exhausted and starving, but the restaurant connected to the hotel is out of food. Peter, the kind proprietor who checked us in, says he can make us some French fries. Ten minutes later, we sit at a small table, drinking cold cans of Pilsner, dunking thick, greasy fries into mustard, and discussing Ecuadorian politics with Peter. We learn that dozens of police officers have been taken hostage by protesters. We learn there have been at least five deaths.
Our hearts break when Peter shows us a video on his phone. “Mira el hombre en blanco.” Watch the man in the white shirt. We watch as a shoot-out between protesters and police escalates. The man in the white shirt drops dead.
Peter has tears in his eyes. I am crying for my country.
I express our sorrow and sympathy as best I can in my imperfect Spanish. Feeling numb, Jon and I walk silently upstairs to our room. We sit down on our respective beds and stare into space. Neither one of us says a word.
When our alarm goes off at 6:30 the next morning, we are both already wide awake. Today is Sunday. We hope we might be able to get out of the city while it’s still early. We haul our bags downstairs. Peter isn’t there, but the manager on duty offers to call a taxi. After three tries, he says no hay nada. Jon attempts to order an Uber. No drivers available.
I walk out to the street. In the distance, I see cars driving down the highway that was shut down yesterday. A few of them appear to be taxis.
“We’ll just walk to the main road and hail a cab there.”
The manager looks at me like I’m crazy. I shrug and say es la única opcion. Gracias por su ayuda.
It takes almost an hour to find a cab. When one finally pulls up next to us, I immediately ask the driver if the roads to the airport are open and he nods. We drive several miles, crossing through multiple intersections sprinkled with rubble and the smoking remains of yesterday’s blockades. It feels good to speed past them. We are finally making progress out of the city.
But it doesn’t last. We make it roughly ten miles before we hit the first blockade in the middle of the highway. Our driver tries everything — even driving down the wrong side of the highway — to no avail. After turning around twice, he finally drops us in front of a small cafe in Tumbaco, another suburb of Quito.
Having not eaten dinner last night or breakfast this morning, we throw down our bags and collapse into wooden chairs, tired, hungry, and defeated. A middle-aged woman gives us a warm smile and asks what she can get for us. Eyeing all our luggage and our haggard expressions, she asks where we’re coming from. I briefly explain our situation. She asks a series of rapid questions, expressing maternal concern.
By the time we pay the bill, she has arranged for a driver to take us to the airport using back roads. He is a very good driver, she says. He knows the mountain roads.
Again, we trust this woman because we have no other option. Our driver is named Pol. He is not a taxi driver but apparently he grew up in this area, and he knows every back road. Pol is extremely friendly and good-natured. As we speed down dusty, winding roads, he compliments my Spanish-speaking abilities and asks about why we came to Ecuador.
“Somos montañeros,” I say. “Queríamos subir Cotopaxi, pero obviamente todos los parques nacionales están cerrados.”
Pol is also a lover of the mountains. He tells us we have to return to Ecuador, and lists off many other places we need to visit when we come back.
We drive for about 15 minutes before we reach the first blockade. I can’t believe it — even way the hell out here, on an unpaved back road — there is a small fire burning in the middle of the road, and a group of 20 indigenous people.
Pol steps out of the car and greets the group with open arms and a wide smile. He seems to know at least one person. After some placating conversation and an exchange of money (we pay them $10) the group allows us to pass.
The same thing happens again 10 minutes later. More sweet talk from Pol. More cash handed over by the American tourists. Jon turns around in the passenger seat and and looks at me. “I have 20 bucks—that’s all the money I have left.”
I look in my wallet. “I have about $50… we should be okay,” I say hesitantly. How many more people are we going to have to pay off?
Several more miles of mountain roads finally brings us to a small town adjacent to the main highway. We are just eight miles from the airport. Pol attempts to talk to the protesters blocking the ramp onto the highway, but they yell in his face. In the distance, we can see another line of protesters clashing with police.
Another blocked intersection (eight miles from the airport.)
Our issue now is geography — we have to cross the Chiche river. The only two roads that appear to cross it are both major highways that are totally shut down.
Jon and Pol peer at Jon’s phone, looking for any other possible option. They see the Ruta Ecológica El Chaquiñán, a nature trail popular for bike riding. Without hesitating, Pol agrees to try it.
It’s a good thing we’re in such a small car, I think as we bump along the narrow trail. We ride over two small bridges. “We did it!” Jon says, “we crossed the river!”
The three of us laugh at how ridiculous our route has become — we have been in the car with Pol for almost three hours now, and his determination to get us to our destination has not faltered once.
“The airport is shut down— none of the staff can get there. All the flights are cancelled.”
I’m standing in the lobby of a fancy hotel, chatting with a disgruntled American tourist. We’ve finally made it to Puembo, a small town just five miles from the airport. The tourist continues her diatribe.
“We got in from the Galápagos yesterday, and we’ve been stuck here for a whole day.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Eyeing the coffee and cocktail drinks circulating around the lobby, I think about how Jon and I have only eaten one real meal in the past 24 hours. I shrug and say, “my buddy and I got dropped on the side of the highway in the middle of Quito — at least you’re safe here.”
I walk over to Jon who is leaning against the check-in counter talking to the concierge.
“They don’t have any rooms available,” he says.
“Well the airport is apparently shut down, so we need to find a place to stay.”
Still resolutely down for the cause, Pol drives us to three more hotels — all of them are full. It seems that Puembo has been inundated with stranded tourists. Jon searches the map on his phone yet again, and finds a tiny hostel nearby. He hands me the phone to chat with the proprietor. They have a room available. Finally.
We stare into the fire, passing around a bottle of Aguardiente or “fire water”, a traditional Ecuadorian liquor, and chatting about the events of the past few days.
While we are stranded thousands of miles from home, the Ecuadorians we’ve met at the hostel are stuck just a few dozen miles from home. They are young professionals — one is an architect, two others are wedding photographers.
“I can’t imagine how bad this is for you guys,” Danny says.
I shake my head. “You live here! When we leave this, we go back to our own country. Granted, the U.S. has its own problems… but we don’t have to live in the midst of riots.”
“It’s not so bad for people like us—in the middle class,” Danny says. “Regardless of what happens, we’ll be okay. But for the 60 percent of the population who barely has enough money to survive, this could have a major impact.”
Sharing our experience with new friends.
It’s just after 3am on Monday morning when Jon and I finally walk into the Quito Mariscal Airport. Our journey started on Saturday morning at 9am. After 42 hours of erratic travel, we have finally arrived.
“I can’t believe we’re here – this feels so surreal.”
Shortly before midnight Danny came into our room to tell us the riots and protests were officially over. Carlos, the owner of the hostel, agreed to drive us to the airport in the middle of the night. We passed flickering fires and remnants of blockades, as well as some military personnel, but no protesters.
The main lobby of the airport is clogged with stranded passengers. We pull out our sleeping bags, lay down, and immediately pass out. We don’t know how long it will take to get out of here, but at least we have finally made it to this point. When I wake up, the blue and pink hues of sunrise glow through the massive windows directly above us. I lift my head, look to the left, and see Cotopaxi reflecting the early morning sun in the distance. I think of grabbing my camera, but like so many moments over the past few days, I am just too exhausted. My head drops back down to the floor, and I fall back to sleep immediately.
Three hours later, I’m on the phone with Delta. My flight has been cancelled, again. The airline rebooks me on a flight out of Quito scheduled for 12 hours from now. By begging, pleading, and looking ridiculously pathetic, I convince a gate agent to give me a seat on Jon’s flight to Lima.
Jon and I walk down the jetway in jubilation. “We’re going to Peru!!!”
Walking into this lovely seaside restaurant in Lima felt like entering another world.
Double-fisting Peruvian beer and the best damn pisco sour I’ve ever tasted.
Cold drinks. Fresh ceviche. Abundant sunshine. Jon and I are all smiles as we clink our glasses together.
“Here’s to making it out of Ecuador,” I say.
Jon sips his pisco sour and says, “I still can’t believe how many incredible people we met.”
“Seriously.”
Sebastian, Peter, Pol, Carlos, and half a dozen other people whose names we never even knew, helped us get where we needed to go. The generosity and kindness of those strangers is something I will carry with me forever.
“Well, it’s not standing on top of an ice-covered volcano, but I’m pretty sure this experience will be burned into my mind just as vividly for the rest of my life,” I say. “This is a different kind of summit.”
If you’re ever stuck in a precarious situation, whether it’s high on a freezing mountain or in the middle of a chaotic city, be sure to bring along a top-notch adventure buddy. I love you so much Jon.
We were hoping to get a badass photo on the summit of a volcano in Ecuador. Instead we got this shot of us on a beach in Lima, Peru. Whatever—we’ll take it.
We met some truly remarkable people during our journey out of Quito. Here are just a few of the establishments and individuals who helped us: Hostal del Valle, Papitas Ink, Pol Grijalva, Carlos and the kind folks at Maria Adelaida Hostal (Puembo), Daniel Maldonado, and Nana Paredes. Muchísimas gracias por todo.