Big boys do cry

Laguna Quilotoa, Ecuador

Quito, Ecuador
[by Jeremy]

It’s often said to be an endearing quality in a man to be able to show emotion, to be able to shed a tear. It’s not quite so endearing when the man in question is on all fours, clinging to a rock and blubbing uncontrollably.

I am that man.

Before setting out on what was to turn out to be one of the best – and when I say best, I really mean both best and worst – treks of our entire trip, we asked our fellow overlanders Thomas and Sabine what the hike around the Quilotoa volcanic lake was like. “It’s fine they said, a little narrow in parts”.

I’m not sure what it was that possessed them to forget to mention the 1000ft sheer cliffs dropping straight in to the lake that, legend has it, is so deep it has no bottom. That’s the problem with people who don’t suffer from vertigo – no sense of impending doom!

Tears and tantrums aside, the hike from our base in Chugchilán to Quilotoa was stunning, the views incredible and the experience – well, an experience.

See that threadlike, impossibly narrow path going up the side of the valley? That was the easy bit.

It all started so well – a steep hour-long hike down almost 1000m in to the depths of an amazing canyon. It was at this point we realised why most hikers did the trek in reverse. What goes down must go up – or something like that. In front of us was five hours of continuous up from the valley floor.

With burning knees, and gasping for breath at 3,500m, we reached our first summit – the village of Guayama. Incredible views down in to the canyon, to the volcanoes and mountains surrounding us in every direction and back to the precipitous path we had just climbed were a just reward.

At least that’s the worst part over we reassured ourselves. Oh yeah? From there we climbed gently to the foot of the final ascent. It’s one of those that doesn’t look too steep when you are gazing at it from a distance. Close up it looked monstrous. With the sun burning down, the air thinning and our limbs growing ever more weary we climbed and climbed to the lip of the volcano.

At least that’s the worst part over, we reassured ourselves. Oh yeah? As we reached the lip of the crater we were confronted with – depending on your level of vertigo – the most astonishing view of Quilotoa, an awe-inspiring sight or a terrifying path to certain death.

“The rational part of my brain appeared to have gone on its own trek somewhere far away.”

My natural reaction when confronted with such terror is to cling on to rock, often grazing my face and hands in the process as I physically try to climb inside the rock face – and to stop the spinning, I find getting on all fours helps. It’s not a great look.

Normally this lasts for a while before Paula can connect with the rational part of my brain and persuade me that I can do it. And I do.

Maybe it was the thinness of the air, or the tiredness, but the rational part of my brain appeared to have gone on its own trek somewhere far away from here. Seconds of frozen inaction became minutes and minutes became an hour. Despite my protestations there was no way we could head back the way we’d come before dark – or physically manage it – so, rationally, I decided we could just sleep out in the open, at 3800m, in the freezing cold and rain. Well, it seemed rational to me.

It was only the chance arrival of some other trekkers and a local guide who persuaded us we could make the last part. Frankly, the guide just lied to me about how the last part wasn’t so bad.

Relief that we’ve almost reached the end – but still not relaxed enough to stop hugging the rock.

As we edged along the crater rim even I had to admit the views were out of this world. I even relaxed enough to enjoy them! An hour later we arrived at the village of Quilotoa, found a lovely hostel with a log fire in the room, ate, drank and were merry.

We awoke to a beautiful sunrise, and were greeted not only by stunning views of the emerald green lake far below but also by grazing llamas as we hiked down to sit at the lakeside – pure tranquility. After a few more wobbly-kneed moments climbing back up to the rim we rested our aching limbs enjoying a coffee in the town square while waiting for the bus back to Chugchilán. You didn’t think we were going to hike back did you?

At least that’s the worst part over, we reassured ourselves. Oh yeah?
The moment the bus set off in the midst of a swirling mountain storm and the local passengers began crossing themselves, we knew we were in for a bumpy ride. The dirt road began to turn in to a stream in parts, a quagmire in others. After a terrifying 15 minutes slipping and sliding along the side of the mountain we finally came unstuck. Less unstuck, perhaps, than stuck. As the bus slid backwards towards the edge of the cliff and the passengers screamed, we became firmly lodged in deep, deep mud. As everyone disembarked and diggers helped to get the bus moving again we joined a group of locals who, in sheeting mountain rain, walked past the next couple of nerve-jangling corners and rejoined the bus where the road looked less likely just to plunge in to the canyon.

It’s one thing when I’m irrational about falling over a cliff, but when Paula heads to the front of the bus and sits at the open door so she can jump off before we go over the edge, I know I’m being rational. An hour, several bitten fingernails and a couple of near-death experiences later, as we round a corner, the bus gets stuck again. This time it looks pretty final (as we find out a few hours later, when they finally get the bus out of its hole, this happens pretty much every day). Just a couple of kilometres short of our destination we decide to cut our losses and walk the final stretch.

Over a cold beer and warm dinner we relive our last 48 hours. And like all such tales, in our recounting the fear diminishes, our bravery grows until in the end the tears, the tantrums, the terror are just footnotes in an otherwise spectacular hiking experience. The scars are emotional – except for a couple of grazed hands – but the memories are among the best of the whole trip so far. It’s funny how these things work out.

Leaving Quilotoa we head back to Quito to pick up the van which has had its new fuel injector put in.

Quito’s not a bad place to be stuck for a while.

At least that’s the worst part over, we reassured ourselves. Oh yeah?

As we arrive at the mechanics, expecting to drive away, our van is being pushed in to the workshop. What!? Several days and a good deal of stress later we get the dreaded news that part of our rebuilt transmission is buggered.

The mechanics are baffled as to how an 11-month-old transmission could break. Our complaint to VW has been duly filed – we’ll let you know what compensation they decide to offer us….

As ever when big things go wrong with your vehicle on a road trip you start to think the worst, get upset, make all kinds of alternative plans and generally go in to a bit of a panic. We did all of the above. Before we knew it we were sat having afternoon tea with an elderly ‘colonial’ British couple, agreeing to look after their five dogs and sprawling finca on the outskirts of Quito for five months, and I had applied for a job as a football reporter in Ecuador.

In the cold light of day, the house-sitting plans didn’t work out – sadly we couldn’t co-ordinate our dates and the news on the transmission, bad though it was, was not as catastrophic as first feared. We could get the spare parts, sort it out and be back on the road almost within our planned schedule. So we have rented an apartment in Quito and set about enjoying life in a city we have come to really love – oh, and doing some freelance journalism to pay for the parts.

Setbacks often mean a bit of a change of plan…

At least that’s the worst part over, we are reassuring ourselves.

The silver lining in all of this is that we realise our journey is not one straight line (and not just because we get lost a lot) or just one adventure but a whole series of different adventures and experiences and if we have to stop for a while, have to get local jobs, have to change our plans we are ready, willing and able to do it.

After we’ve had a little panic, obviously.

Days: 558
Miles: 17,551
Things we now know to be true: “To want to tackle everything rationally is irrational.” [Ilyas Kassam - writer]

Paula on the trek from Chugchilan to Quilotoa

Canon de Toachi, Quilotoa Loop

We decided to call these flowers – babies shoes. We found out they are called by locals – babies shoes. Excellent.

On the trek from Chugchilan to Quilotoa

Meeting the locals, Guayama, Quilotoa Loop

Emerald green Laguna Quilotoa

Laguna Quilotoa through the afternoon mist

Wild flowers along the trek from Chugchilan to Quilotoa

Clouds descend over Laguna Quilotoa

Reaching the summit above laguna Quilotoa

Laguna Quilotoa from the crater rim

Laguna Quilotoa from the crater rim

Paula, lakeside, Laguna Quilotoa

Pampas grass, Laguna Quilotoa

Emerald-green Laguna Quilotoa. Psychedelic!

Grazing at Laguna Quilotoa

Rally in support of Venezuelan revolution, Quito

Chez Dear, our temporary home in Quito

Rally in support of Bolivarian Revolution, Quito

Angel statue, El Panecillo, high above Quito

The urban sprawl of Quito from El Panecillo

Society wedding in bohemian Guapulo, Quito

Colourful murals on the road to Guapulo, Quito

Looking out from Guapulo, Quitoover the Tumbaco valley

Forks in the Road – read it and eat

Our virtual overlanding friends – the trio that make up a website and work-while-you-travel lifestyle called Life Remotely – have done something many of us think we’d like to, but don’t bother to try. They’ve written a beautiful cookbook.

We’ve bought one, in ebook form. And we hope you want to too. It would be the kind thing to do to your tastebuds and stomach, it supports a bunch of people who have been immeasurably helpful to other overlanders with their free advice and tips and… here’s the good bit… if you buy it via our special link – below and at the end of this post – we get a nice kickback from the profits. Every one a winner!

Here’s that magic link. Click here to view more details

While Forks in the Road is aimed at nomadic overlanders it by no means excludes the ‘settled’ population. In fact, it transfers perfectly into the different moods and circumstances of normal life, from on-the-run breakfasts and lunches, to ‘I’m tired and dirty and just want to eat’ dinners and ‘I’m feeling fancy’ meals. Outdoorsy types will love the tips on cooking over an open fire – from slow roasting huge chunks of meat to baking or steaming with a cast-iron ‘oven’. And for every mood, there’s a cocktail recipe!

As Jessica, Kobus and Jared have just completed the PanAm route from the US to Argentina, the book of course includes loads of Latin American recipes and twists – like empanadas, ceviche and chimichurri steak – as well as some North American favourites and dishes from their other travels. There’s a love for comfort food, like their slow-cooked pork chilli, BBQ ribs, stews, soups and sweet treats.

The great thing about it is that it’s unpretentious – they love to cook from scratch but will suggest ready-made supermarket stuff, alongside homemade alternatives if you have the time and inclination. All the ingredients are easily available, even if you don’t live somewhere with a Latin American population.

And it shouldn’t really make a difference to the taste – but the recipes are beautifully photographed and presented.

If you’re reading this from outside the US, you might want to consider the ebook as your best option. Self-publishing is a tricky business, with no special deals for international shipping if you are a mere mortal. As someone close to the project said to me: “Americans can figure out how to get discounted weapons around the world but can’t mail a single book without breaking the bank.”

Have a sneaky peek below. Buen provecho!

Here’s that really clever link again: Click here to view more details

This little piggie went to market

Chugchilan, Ecuador
[by Paula]

We have become proficient enough at getting ourselves lost without any help from anyone, so we really don’t need someone telling us that when we’re going north we’re actually going sideways.

Jeremy reacts to seeing the equator by displaying his Ministry of Silly Walks repertoire.

And so it was when we crossed the equator. We pulled into the ‘solar clock’ at exactly 0°, in Quitsato, Ecuador and glimpsed the much-anticipated line on the ground. We’d made it! We straddled it, star-jumped over it and did funny walks across it, because that is what you must do when you encounter that magical point between the earth’s hemispheres.

We were so happy. But by the time we’d finished listening to the guide’s explanation about the solstices, the position of the sun, and the spinny-spinny earth thing that my dad used to demonstrate with apples and oranges, our world had been turned upside down. Or sideways, by about 23°.

I know we should have known this. Science is not our strong point – we prefer words. We decided to move on from the shock news that north is not up, the news that all our lives we have been lied to, and focus on looking for somewhere to camp.

Miguel’s super-enthusiastic uncle insisted on a farewell photocall. Quitsato, Ecuador.

The Quitsato guide, Miguel, saw we’d arrived in a campervan and asked where we were staying that night. “No idea,” we said. He said his family had some land we could camp in, just a few minutes drive away. Brilliant! We got settled in and spent much of the afternoon and evening talking to various sections of Miguel’s massive extended family, including a particularly enthusiastic uncle who questioned us for hours on every subject imagineable, and giving our Spanish skills a bit of a workout.

They wanted to know what we thought of Ecuador. We were able to report that our first week had been all good. We hadn’t eaten roasted guinea pig yet, but it was on the list. That day we had tried one of the area’s specialities, bizcocho, a sweet melty flaky pastry served with a cup of hot chocolate and a finger of stringy mozzarella-style cheese. I asked the family why they served cheese with hot chocolate. They just looked at me and burst out laughing, as if I was the weird one.

We’d spent the first week in the country in Otavalo, a delightful mountain town with famous animal and crafts markets, and surrounded by volcanoes and lakes.
We settled into a beautiful campsite with volcano views from every angle. When the skies were clear we could see the shining snow-capped peak of Volcan Cayambe from our door.

Volcan Cayambe from our van door, Otavalo.

On market day we had a rare spree at the craft market – some winter-wear for the van, including an alpaca wool blanket and two woolly hats to brighten up the headrests.

At the animal market we restricted ourselves to spectating only. Loudly protesting pigs were being lead around on strings, chickens carried around underarm like bags of rice, and guinea pigs pulled from sacks and held aloft amid passionate bartering for the price. We definitely haven’t reached the stage where we can face buying our dinner live.

One of the most strikingly obvious differences between Ecuador and its neighbour Colombia is that the former still has a significant indigenous population, some of whom still wear traditional brightly-coloured wool clothing, long plaits and trilby-style Andean hats. The children are often just wearing miniature adults’ clothes, which makes them look so serious. Tiny little girls shuffle about in blouses, shawls and thick woollen skirts like – as we say in Scotland – ‘wee wifies’.

On a less poetic note, the other differences from countries we have previously visited are the shiny new roads and cheaper petrol. The Ecuadorian government, under the popular Rafael Correa, has discovered that if you collect taxes you can do things like build roads. And if you renegotiate your contracts with multinationals so your own country profits from your oil, you can have cheaper fuel and more money for social projects like education and health.

Guinea pigs for dinner anyone?, Otavalo.

We marvelled at the smooth drive south from Otavalo, over the equator, and down to the capital city, Quito.

For reasons mentioned in earlier posts, the van was still in need of some TLC, and we took it straight to a mechanic Jeremy had found online. A German former racing driver, who specialised in German cars. Now, surely, if someone could help us he was the man!

We left him to investigate while we spent nearly a week exploring Quito. We had a great feeling about it – after Mexico City, it was the best capital we’d encountered. Its dramatic mountain valley setting, lovely colonial centre, good (if crammed) trolley bus system and endless cheap cafes were a treat. At 2,850m (9,350ft) it’s the second highest capital city in the world. We puffed our way up to some of its higher points to get a spectacular view over the city, and one day I left (vertigo-afflicted) Jeremy behind to take the ear-popping telefériqo (cable car) another 1,000m up to get a vista from cloud level.

We spent an evening in the city’s chi-chi La Ronda area, drinking way too many jugs of canelazo and watching a modern Andean folk band that was so good it made Jeremy realise the panpipes are not something only to be played blandly by ridiculous stripey-trousered poncho-wearing hippies on Britain’s high streets.

Next day we took our hangovers to a Sunday morning football match, between LDU Quito and Macará (1-0) and were entertained by constant singing and drumming throughout. Later we dragged our heavy legs up streets that make San Francisco look like a billiards table, and were rewarded with the magnificent Capilla del Hombre, an impressive and moving space dedicated to the work of Ecuadorian artist Oswaldo Guayasamín, who focused his life’s work on the oppression of indigenous poor of Latin America and the brutality of man, but also on hope for social progress.

It seems a bit shallow to go from that to our campervan woes… but meanwhile at the mechanic…. after a process of elimination, and an ultra-sound clean-up of two dodgy fuel injectors, the mechanic told us one was beyond repair and needed to be replaced. Was this available in Ecuador? If you have ever read this blog, then you will know what the answer is – of course not!

One was swiftly ordered from the US, and we left the van behind and set off southwards by bus to explore the area around the town of Baños while waiting for the part to arrive.

When we got there we met up for a good catch-up with fellow road-trippers Thomas and Sabine – last spotted by us in Nicaragua last June. Who knew you could ‘bake’ apple strudel on a stovetop? Thanks Sabine!

The cable car gave me a cloud-level view of Quito.

From a hike high above the town we got an almost-too-close-for-comfort view of the smoking Volcan Tungurahua, which last had a major eruption in 2006 and was recently responsible for local evacuations in December 2012. Eek.

We travelled to nearby Ambato for another footie match, this time a home game for Macará, against fellow bottom of the table-dwellers Deportivo Cuenca. From the stadium, aptly named Bellavista, we got a bullseye view of Tungurahua’s smoking cone. The locals were battered 5-1, and by the language being directed at some of their players and their manager, I think they would have happily tossed them straight into the volcano’s fiery throat.

Baños is – unsurprisingly, given its name and location – centred around its volcanic hot springs and various spin-offs like massages and therapies. This week we walked that fine line between pleasure and pain when we took a ‘health steam bath’ in our hostel. A portly Ecuadorian lady cooked us for several minutes in a steam box that was not unlike being put in the stocks, then removed us and doused us in freezing water, before locking us back in the steam box. After three rounds of that we were blasted with a cold jet hose.

It’s a similar process to the one our fuel injectors have been going through this week but, at just $4 each, we anticipate our own de-tox will turn out to be considerably cheaper.

Days: 539
Miles: 17,551
Things we now know to be true: Almost every map ever made is a lie.

—–

HOUSEKEEPING – HOUSEKEEPING – HOUSEKEEPING

Below are some photos of our first couple of weeks in Ecuador.
In other housekeeping news, our Colombia campspots map is now complete.

Also, we’ve been doing a belated catch-up of our Colombia photos on Flickr. If you haven’t been subjected to these several times already, click here for our Flickr collections

A pig awaits its fate, animal market, Otavalo, Ecuador.

Chicks for sale, animal market, Otavalo, Ecuador.

Woman and baby, animal market, Otavalo, Ecuador.

A woman brandishes one of many guinea pigs she has for sale, animal market, Otavalo, Ecuador.

Chicken trading, animal market, Otavalo, Ecuador.

Shopping at the Animal market, Otavalo, Ecuador.

Animal market, Otavalo, Ecuador.

Many indigenous people wear spectacularly bright colours. Animal market, Otavalo, Ecuador.

New purchase? Calf and owner at the animal market, Otavalo, Ecuador.

Shopping at the animal market, Otavalo, Ecuador.

Sheep walkies, animal market, Otavalo, Ecuador.

Kitten for sale, Animal market, Otavalo, Ecuador

Chicken trading, animal market, Otavalo, Ecuador.

Shopping for a blanket, craft market, Otavalo, Ecuador.

Jewellery galore, craft market, Otavalo, Ecuador.

Basket of wool, craft market, Otavalo, Ecuador.

Sorry Mr Pig, but you made a delicious lunch. Otavalo, Ecuador.

Shopping for dinner, food market, Otavalo, Ecuador.

Set camera timer. Sprint up rock. And… look relaxed..!

Laguna Grande looking ominously grey, Lagunas de Mojanda, near Otavalo, Ecuador.

The Dears reach point-zero. Equator, Quitsato, Ecuador.

Jeremy is pleased to be crossing the equator, Quitsato, Ecuador.

Keeping a foot in both camps. The equator, Quitsato, Ecuador.

Our first alpaca sighting, Quitsato, Ecuador

A five-day-old alpaca stays close to mum, Quitsato, Ecuador

Plaza San Francisco, Quito, Ecuador

Sorbet for sale, Quito

Plaza Grande, Quito, Ecuador.

Quito spreads for miles along the valley.

Bolivar is the undisputed hero of most of Latin America.

I can never get over the fact that Calla lilies grow outdoors here, usually in the highlands.

The great thing about Latin American football matches is that there is a steady flow of food and drinks for sale in the stands.

In the absence of a Spurs match, Macara vs Deportivo Cuenca will have to do.

If you want this view of Banos, your legs have to pay the price.

Banos by night.

The smoking Tungurahua volcano looms large behind Ambato’s football stadium.

“Your daughter will suffer”: Colombia’s dark side

Baños, Ecuador
[by Jeremy]

Like so many other travellers, we have, over the past few months, often waxed lyrical about Colombia’s natural beauty – its stunning landscapes, its warm people, its incredible coastline, its deserts, mountains, not forgetting its delicious arepas con queso.

Colombia’s paramilitaries target trade union activists and community leaders

Unlike most other travellers we are fortunate enough – if that can ever be the right word – to have been able to lift the veil of normality, to scratch below the surface of the glossy tourist brochures and to experience a small part of the reality of the Colombia in which many millions of poor, displaced and victimised Colombians are forced to live.

Maybe partly through our own fear, or for the sake of some of those we met, we decided to wait until we had left the country before writing this blog. That in itself speaks volumes about the situation.

For 10 years before this trip I travelled to Colombia helping to expose the human stories behind the grim statistics. I have been present when mass graves of alleged ‘false positives’ – young men from among the urban poor who had been kidnapped by the army, murdered, dressed in guerilla uniforms and buried in rural areas far from prying eyes – were uncovered. I have met these young men’s mothers and heard first hand of the persecution they face simply for seeking the truth about their sons’ murders.

I have helped document testimonies from peasant farmers in Meta province about the human rights abuses suffered by whole communities at the hands of the army and the right-wing paramilitaries – and forced back a tear when two weeks later their spokesperson was assassinated in front of his family. I have been in to the women’s prison in Bogota to meet with young women living in insanitary conditions, with eight to a room designed for four, who are denied visits from friends and family, sometimes even their own children. These women and many more – among them teachers and community workers – are arrested and detained often for years at a time, without trial in flagrant breach of international human rights laws.

Colombia is a country not only rich in natural beauty, it is a rich country, full stop. Boasting reserves of the majority of the world’s most valuable natural resources, Colombia exports petroleum, coal nickel, gold, copper, iron ore, bananas, cut flowers, sugarcane, natural gas and over half of the world’s emeralds. Colombia also boasts the most uneven income distribution in the whole of Latin America.

Extra-judicial killings aim to silence those who speak out

Many millions of Colombians live in poverty. Millions are denied healthcare, millions live without clean water, millions live below the poverty line – and for those journalists, peace campaigners, trade unionists and indigenous rights activists, who expose such realities or stand up to the onward march of the multinationals, against privatisation of basic services, or who defend land and speak out for the peasants and the urban poor, the full force of a vicious, neo-liberal regime and a brutal paramilitary movement – aided and abetted by sections of the state, army and police – is brought down upon them.

These aren’t mere fantasies. 60% of all the trade unionists killed in the world are killed in Colombia. Around 200 trade unionists are currently classified as ‘disappeared’. Colombia now has the highest number of internally displaced people in the world – around 5,000,000 – mostly the result of land seizures. 230,000 people were forced to flee their homes last year alone. There are more than 5,600 political prisoners, many languishing in appalling conditions in overcrowded jails – mainly opposition politicians, trade union leaders and community activists. In recent years (2002-2010) an average of 4,368 people have been killed or disappeared in combat and conflict-related violence each year – around 12 people per day. And at the heart of Colombia’s human rights crisis is the issue of impunity. According to the UN, in 98.5% of cases of extra-judicial executions carried out by the army, no-one has been brought to justice. In 98% of the cases of killings of journalists and trade unionists the perpetrators have never been charged.

Colombia has among the highest number of forced disappearances in the world – with approximately 30,000 people currently believed to be disappeared. The state security forces are responsible for the vast majority of disappearances. The Colombian Commission of Jurists (CCJ) state that “public functionaries are compromised in one way or another in around 97% of these cases.

“Few stories of bravery and resilience in the face of abuse, torture and intimidation can surpass that of my old friend Claudia Julieta Duque.”

Even the space for democratic participation in Colombia is severely limited. In most elections, even today, large numbers of votes are simply bought. In recent years the paramilitaries – in what is now known as the para-political scandal – have played an increasingly pivotal role in delivering elections for their favoured candidates by, for example, ensuring the other candidates on the ballot are threatened into pulling out. The paramilitaries also poured millions of dollars in to funding electoral campaigns, leaving the successful candidates indebted to them rather than to their electorate. More than 50 members of the 2006-10 Congress are currently facing trial as a result of accepting bribes from paramilitary organisations.

In my years of travelling to Colombia I have met some of the most inspirational people I will ever meet. People who in the face of such injustices and terror continue to expose the truth, stand up for economic and social justice and represent their fellow workers, their communities or simply their beliefs.

Protesting against human rights abuses in Colombia

In Bogota, just a few weeks ago, we interviewed the lawyer and sister of a jailed teacher – Omar Combita – for a video to be shown in the UK. Their dignity in the face of the injustice he has faced was incredible. Omar is yet another trade union activist and community leader accused of the catch-all ‘crime’ of ‘rebellion’. He has been imprisoned for over 18 months – without trial. He has been denied medical assistance despite suffering from the early symptoms of Parkinson’s. The evidence against him has been changed twice and he has been denied due legal process.
He and his family continue to fight, with dignity, for justice.

But few stories of bravery and resilience in the face of abuse, torture and intimidation can surpass that of my old friend Claudia Julieta Duque. Whilst her bravery as an independent journalist exposing human rights abuses has won her numerous international awards, it is only up close you can understand the true horror of what she and her amazing daughter have been through.

We stayed with them in Bogota. Claudia couldn’t come out and meet us or go for a drink or even walk to the shop with us. She lives under a constant death threat from paramilitary groups. She lives in a gated apartment complex, hidden away behind an armoured front door with locks like Fort Knox. There is a TV in her living room but it doesn’t show films or comedies or sport. It relays images from the security cameras which survey the inside and outside or her home. When she does go out she cannot walk, instead she has to drive her armour-plated car with bullet proof glass.

For Claudia though, life is better than it was. In Claudia’s case such improvements are relative.

The ‘false positives’ scandal saw poor young men kidnapped by the army, murdered, dressed in guerilla uniforms and buried in rural areas. This grave is one of dozens in the cemetery next to the army base in La Macarena.

Between 2001 and 2008 Claudia was subjected to systematic intimidation at the hands of Colombia’s security services (DAS) – years of illegal monitoring, surveillance, interception of emails, physical threats and harassment. She received abusive phone calls threatening the life of her then 11-year old daughter – one caller told her “your daughter is going to suffer, we will burn her alive, we will spread her fingers throughout the house.”. In 2004 Claudia Julieta was kidnapped. She later uncovered an instruction manual published by the DAS, setting out in detail how to intimidate and frighten her and to rape her daughter. The manual outlined exactly how to make the threat (from a public phone box with no CCTV cameras nearby), how long to stay on the line (less than 60 seconds to avoid a trace) and the exact wording to use to threaten her and her daughter. She has been forced to flee Colombia three times already, leaving behind family, friends and colleagues.

Claudia’s crime? She consistently documented and exposed irregularities in the investigation into the murder of journalist Jaime Garzon, including the involvement of the security services in his killing. The threats were designed to silence her. They failed.

Today, while things improve from time to time, Claudia still faces threats, still lives in fear of assassination, and finds it almost impossible to earn a living because of the intimidation. Editors are often too scared to even commission her for fear of the reprisals against them.

I have known Claudia for many years. It is no surprise to me she refuses to be cowed. While we are there her phone rings constantly, talking to journalists in exile, campaigning for recompense for the victims of the conflict, hearing testimony of further human rights abuses, organising to defend a threatened journalist and much more. One call tells her a community leader she interviewed just a few days before has been assassinated, paying the ultimate price for speaking truth to power

The day after we say our goodbyes to Claudia arrest warrants are finally issued against 7 former senior security agents – men at the very top of Colombia’s state apparatus – for the campaign of intimidation against her.

It is a breakthrough after more than a decade of denouncing threats and presenting evidence – but Claudia like so many others knows a long battle lies ahead to actually get a court case, prosecution and some semblance of justice.

Colombians show their support for peace – Tatacoa desert 2013

Such dreams seem a long way off. Just days later her daughter is photographed up close by an unknown man. Then again when out with her boyfriend. Unknown cars have begun to follow Claudia and her daughter. Claudia’s brother has been receiving intimidating phone calls. The cycle of threat and intimidation has begun again.

All Claudia wants, not just for her but for all victims of Colombia’s conflict, is peace – the chance to live her life, work as a journalist. Just the ability to go to the shop, free from fear, for her daughter to enjoy a normal life as a student.

Colombia needs peace. The current peace talks are long overdue. A few days after we left Colombia, civil society took to the streets to demand their voice be heard in those talks.

As Martin Luther King made clear you cannot have justice without peace. And you cannot have peace without justice.

For a fuller briefing on the economic, political and social issues facing Colombia click here.
To find out how you can help click here.

Days: 536
Miles: 17,551
Things we now know to be true: Even bullets cannot silence the voice of the people

Hasta luego Colombia

Campspot with a view, Tatacoa Desert, Colombia

Otavalo, Ecuador
[by Paula]

Hello Ecuador!

We’d been in Colombia so long we were in danger of starting to look suspicious to the authorities. The last customs official to renew our car permit told us one more month would be plenty to get us to the border. So we took the hint… and after five months there it seemed like a good time to start heading south again, which is, after all, kind of the aim of this journey.

We were sad to leave. But our grief rapidly lifted when we crossed the border and filled the tank with petrol at less than a third of the price of Colombia. US$1.48 per gallon. Let me say again, hello Ecuador!

Good morning Ecuador. Otavalo is our first stop.

Our last couple of weeks in Colombia had fulfilled our now expected quota of serenity, drama, beauty, wilderness, city stress, desert, mountains, mechanics, blistering heat, cold nights, rain, drought, and ups and downs of both the geographical and emotional variety.
The bad day, of which we blogged recently, was joined by some others vying to be contenders in the Really Bad Days stakes, but they were – happily – outnumbered by some last minute entries in the Best Bits of Colombia contest.

The morning after that hideous day we started up the van without a hitch and were chaperoned by the owner’s son, Jose, to Hacienda Venecia – a coffee finca that served as a perfect haven for a few days. The fabulous view, fresh mountain air, bracing swimming pool and a rare, indescribably brilliant, hot shower were only enhanced by the constant smell of fresh roasting coffee.

I may be a tea addict, but even I could appreciate that what we were drinking there was some of the best around. We took a coffee tour one sunny morning, and learned a lot about the process, the politics and the economics of growing coffee – which at the moment is a pretty disastrous situation for most small growers in Colombia and beyond.

Our journey through coffee country took us onwards to the less idyllic location of Pereira, a fairly unremarkable industrial city that contained something crucial for our future progress – a VW specialist mechanic. There followed a few days of back and forth, with the owners Martin and his wife Liliana gradually adopting us as their latest cause. As suspected, our recently-bought ignition wires were shot to pieces and needed to be replaced. A few days of searching for compatible parts in Colombia led to the conclusion we expected – nada.

We had no option but to order some from the US and hand over obscene amounts of money to FedEx to get them down to Pereira quick smart. To make sure there was extra pressure added, we were scrambling to get everything done ahead of the interminable shutdown that happens in Latin America at Easter.

These wax palms are really tall. Valle de Cocora, Colombia

As we headed off to the nearby mountain retreat of Salento to wait out the delivery, we asked Liliana when they would close for the holidays, at which point she generously offered up their home phone number. “Whenever the parts arrive, call us at home and we’ll open up the workshop for you”, she said. Result.

From Salento we got re-aquainted with our hiking boots and tackled the steep trail up through the Valle de Cocora, with its impossibly tall and incongruous-looking wax palm trees. At Finca La Montaña, hummingbirds with luminous long tails darted around among the flowers, announcing their presence with a whirr that seemed disproportionate to their size.

As we returned to the town we rewarded ourselves with two regional specialities in a local restaurant – trout with a giant patacone (bashed, fried plantain) and the heart-condition-inducing bandeja paisa; a platter of chorizo, blood sausage, ground pork, fried pork rind, rice, beans, avocado, fried plantains, fried egg and arepas. “I wonder if you’ll get through all of that!” I mused, about 180 seconds before Jeremy washed down the last bite with a swig of Aguila, then accepted some of my spare patacone.

We were outside the FedEx office at 8am, the day before the Easter holidays, gazing at the as-yet-unopened office door like a pair of creepy stalkers. By this time the car was really in a bad way, with steep uphills proving to be the ultimate nightmare. The parts were there. Yay! We just had to hand over yet more cash (a disappointingly high import tax) before we could pick them up. Boo. All we had to do was drive them across the city to the mechanic.

Post-hike snack for one. Bandeja Paisa, Salento, Colombia.

Unfortunately Pereira is like a mini Latin American version of San Francisco. As we tried to navigate the one-way systems we kept coming upon the most vertiginous streets imaginable. It was like a weird dream – we just had to get 6 blocks over that way, whilst avoiding all one-way streets and up-hill manoeuvres. At one point we had to roll back down a hill that the van simply refused to drive up. A passer-by, on hearing our predicament, suggested we reverse about one kilometre down a one-way street to get there. Helpful.

Thanks to Jeremy’s photographic memory of the city’s grid system, finally we made it! After a long day the new wires – and a new coil pack, if you are remotely interested – were fitted. We drove off, heading back to Salento, with the van feeling all powerful and macho again.
About 20 minutes later, as we ascended the mountains, we started to lose power, again. It was nowhere near as bad as before but was undoubtedly still playing up.

Much as we’d wanted to avoided it, the next day we dragged Martin and Liliana away from their holiday to investigate. He spent hours sorting out a problem with the electrical wires governing the throttle, or something, and then would not ask for any money (we soon rectified that).

The van was driving really well, powering up hills like it actually enjoyed it, and we headed off south with renewed gusto. During a quite punishingly mountainous drive we stopped to drink a coffee and let the brakes cool. As we pulled out again the shop owner shouted for us to stop, pointing to brake fluid spilling all over the back tyre and saying ‘dangerous’. Before we knew it we were surrounded by a group of guys, some of whom were roving highway mechanics (aka highway robbers). It all seemed rather convenient, and we were suspicious at first, but when he pulled the wheel off there was an obviously deteriorated rubber seal on the caliper.

“We’d been so furious we’d thrown every penny we had at them. One km later we came upon a road toll. No money.”

He went off for 2 hours to source some replacements and after the wheels were back on, the bill they presented us with was laughable. At nearly 3 times what we’d paid for a highly technical mechanic to work on the van for a day and a half in Pereira, this bill was no joke. We had a furious argument. The truth was we didn’t have the cash to pay it, but even if we had we would never have accepted it. I told them they could have the money we had on us (less than half of the bill) or we could go together to the next city and “take advice” about it, perhaps from the police. They took the money we offered and we sped off.

Trouble was, we’d been so furious we’d thrown every penny we had at them. One km later we came upon a road toll. No money. The officials refused Jeremy’s pleas about what had happened, refused to change our US dollars or take a card and, for the sake of $4, they told him to hitch 12km to the city to find a cash machine. After walking 3km a motorcyclist stopped and picked him up, ‘kindly’ offering to pay the toll and then drive with us the ATM so we could pay them back. When we arrived we offered a tip to say thanks, but they demanded a ridiculous $25 for their petrol. We were so sick of arguing by this stage we threw the money at him and drove off. In 5 months we can safely say we had not met any nasty or unwelcoming people in Colombia, and yet in the space of a morning we’d had them in spades. When added to recent frustrations, we temporarily lost faith and felt down for a little while.

But here I am rattling on about the van again – it was still going, and the next 10 days saw our spirits life as as we put in a lot of miles, by our standards, and visited some of the highlights of the country.

We left the mountains for a while and descended to the hot valley that leads to Colombia’s tiny southern desert, Desierto de la Tatacoa. The desert, ah how we love it! 

Camping in Walter’s living room, Espinal, Colombia.

At the end of day one of driving there we were looking for a place to camp and asked at a country club outside the town of Espinal. The owner wasn’t keen, but a guy who was there giving a tennis lesson offered us a space to camp at his house. Okay, we said, if you are sure you have space. He got in the van and directed us straight into the busy town square. ‘Here we are!’ he said. Erm, we explained again that we wanted to camp, in case he hadn’t understood. ‘Yes, my house is very big’, he said. Two street stalls were moved aside to make room for us to drive through large gates sandwiched between a packed restaurant and a shop. We drove in to find a house arranged part outdoors, part indoors, with a living and dining area outside and bedrooms arranged around the courtyard. We would be camping right next to the the sofa in his living room! Definitely a first.

We took advantage of the location and went straight into the adjoining restaurant, which specialised in a local dish, lechona – a slow roasted whole pig stuffed with rice, pulses and spices and served with a sweet stuffing. Oh yes.

A bumpy final stretch took us to the desert the next day, and one of the best camping spots we’d encountered in Colombia. We enjoyed sunset beers and early morning coffee from our position on the edge of a spectacular canyon, filled with jutting cacti and a labyrinth of protruding rock formations that changed colour with each stage of the day.

Heading south and west, towards the Andes and the Ecuadorian border, we spent a glorious few days in San Agustín, the site of hundreds of pre-Columbian statues in the surrounding hills and forests. On a horseback trip through the area, the scenery was spectacular, taking in lush fertile farms of fruits, coffee, yuca and bright red peppers. On a coffee stop at a little house we were talking with the owner about the animals he had. He pointed into a little hut and asked if we knew what ‘cuy’ were. “Yes!” I exclaimed, looking a three cute little furries, “a guinea pig was my first pet.”

“We roast them over there,” he said, pointing to a large clay oven beside us. Oh. A taste of things to come in Ecuador, where guinea pig is a popular dish. 

Horseriding around San Agustin, Colombia

Moving on from San Agustín was never going to be easy. We had three options for getting back over the Andes to Popayán. 1. The very rough, albeit shortest and most common route, otherwise known as the ‘Kangaroo Express’. 2. A similarly rough, and more dangerous, route known as the ‘Trampoline of Death’, or 3. A really really long way round that involved backtracking and taking a, reportedly, less terrible gravel road. We asked the police about the state of the road in option 1, which we had heard was, on top of just being generally bad, churned up with road works and deep muddy ruts.  ”Well, there are guerillas in that area, but if you are lucky you won’t encounter any,” he said. Right. Actually we were just asking about the road surface, but now you’re really spooking us.

After much deliberation we decided on option 1, before changing our minds at the last minute and taking 3 – the long way round.

What a day. After about 6 hours on normal roads and 5 hours of grinding along the washboard gravel road – all through spectacular scenery – we were rewarded with a final awesome stretch through the páramo near the 4750m Volcán Puracè. Wow. 

We arrived in Popayán at twilight and managed, almost, to stay awake through dinner before collapsing. We felt like we were on the home straight, we were going to make it to Ecuador.

The spectacular Sanctuario de las Lajas was our final sight-seeing stop in Colombia

Two more days of driving got us to the border, via a beautiful stop overlooking Volcán Galeras, plus the unreal Sanctuario de Las Lajas, an enormous cathedral built on a bridge over a gorge near the border town of Ipiales.

As is often the way, we spent our final night in the country in rather grimy circumstances – at a gas station truck stop convenient for an early start to the border. We reflected on our 5 months in Colombia, all the things we had seen and done, the amazing people we had met, and the fact that – despite the luxurious amount of time we’d had in the country – that there was still plenty we hadn’t seen.

As night came we couldn’t believe it when another overlander pulled into the truck stop, a guy from Switzerland. We chatted a while and he explained that he had only crossed into Colombia from Panama one week earlier.
“A week!” we said. “And you are already leaving for Ecuador?”
“Yeah”, he sighed. “There’s just nothing to see here.”

For once, we were truly speechless.

Days: 519
Miles: 17,484
Things we now know to be true: Everyone sees the world through different eyes.

Learning all about coffee, Hacienda Venecia, nr Manizales, Colombia,

Waking up and smelling the coffee, Hacienda Venecia, coffee country, Colombia

Hiking through the rock formations, Desierto de la Tatacoa, Colombia

View over the labyrinth of rock formations, Desierto de la Tatacoa, Colombia

Desierto de la Tatacoa, Colombia

Rock formations, Desierto de la Tatacoa, Colombia

Rock formations, Desierto de la Tatacoa, Colombia

View from our campspot, Salento, Colombia

Relief after a steep climb while hiking near Salento, Colombia.

Forests of wax palms are a strange site in the mountains near Salento, Colombia

Sharing our campspot with the animals, San Agustin, Colombia

Fresh beans are ground for coffee during our horseride near San Agustin, Colombia

Pre-Columbian statue, San Agustin, Colombia

View of Volcan Galeras from our campspot near Pasto, Colombia

500 days!

Today we celebrate 500 days on the road!

People often ask, ‘what have been the best bits?’ Impossible to answer. They range from huge awe-inspiring sights – like hiking an active volcano, gazing at Mayan ruins, or looking a snake in the eye – to little moments that would be lost in translation.

It’s been 500 days of exploring, learning, making friends, being rescued by strangers, having more time to be silly, to read, to think, to look around, to travel without a plan. It’s involved spectacular beaches, mountains, jungle, wildlife, and indigenous culture. There have been ill-advised ferry journeys, crazy cities, sanity-stretching bureaucracy, a lot of food, even more beer, unhinged drivers, a few scary moments and more mechanics than we could shake a catalytic converter at.

Here’s a slideshow, not selected for its artistic merit, but because it might go some way to summing up some of the sillier moments of life on the road.

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Portrait of a bad day

Pereira, Colombia
[by Paula]

Life on the road has so many advantages it’s hard to know how to begin to quantify it. I don’t think we need to explain, any more than we have, how it feels to be free – at least for this chapter of our lives.

But despite all the obvious privileges, when you are travelling there is no reason to presume you can escape having a bad day sometimes. You know, those days that come along specifically to be utterly, unambiguously, shit. There’s just no getting away from it, and any traveller that tells you otherwise might just be fibbing a little.

We had one of those recently, and it went something like this. (*all times are approximate)

Nice spot. There’s just one flaw….

4pm: We are en route to the town of Honda, between Bogotá and Manizales. We’re pleased to have left Bogotá behind and, after a brief stop at the mechanic as we left the city, are reassured(ish) that we have no major mechanical issues to worry about. Before Honda we come upon a road block – unbeknown to us this section of the main route across country is currently closed every day from 11am til 6pm. Not wanting to drive after dark we turned back and find a good camp spot a few miles back. The owner asks us to camp in a spot with a great view over the mountains, but it’s down in a bit of a dip.

10pm: The rain comes on with gusto. It rains and rains, all night. Jeremy has half-awake concerns about whether we will wake up in a quagmire.

7am: We wake up in a quagmire.

8am: As we try to exit the campspot the van creates a nice deep sticky trench for itself and sinks into the mud. The owner and his wife try to help push us out, and we make several attempt to get some grip under the tyres with rocks and our levelling blocks. It’s still raining – everything and everyone is caked in mud. The main thing is, we have to get out of there soon so we can drive the section of road that will close at 11am for seven hours.

9am: The owner calls a neighbour with a truck to haul us out.

Bugger.

10am: After 5 rope-snapping attempts, we are still well and truly stuck.

10.20am: New rope found. Finally freed! I’m sliding the van all over the place as the truck drags us out of the dip, with Jeremy et al pushing from behind. “That looked like fun!” said Jeremy. No, it wasn’t. No time to wash the mud off, we make for the road so we can get out of the area before 11am. As we try to ascend the very steep driveway, the car loses all power and stops in the middle of the hill. I roll back, put it in first and take a run at it. It works, but we are worried about the severe loss of power, which is something that’s been happening on hills recently.

12pm: After grinding through queues of trucks we’ve made it to Honda, and quickly check emails for news we are hoping to get from various editors we have pitched story ideas to. Nothing. Grr. We head for the steep mountain road to Manizales, where there is a coffee finca we really want to camp at for a few days.

2pm: The van has been behaving terribly since we left Honda, bunny-hopping up the hills, losing power one minute and leaping ahead the next. It smells of burning plastic. We pull over at a hilltop cafe and see there is something like hot wax pouring from under the van, and solidifying on the ground. We ask the owner to call a mechanic, and two arrive from the next town. Our car scanner shows that two more of the (new) ignition wires are misfiring, along with some other long-running issues we’ve had with the catalytic converter and fuel/air mix – possibly all related, or not…

3pm: The mechanics insist that the hot grease is nothing to panic about (really?). We follow them into the town and they look under the bonnet. We explain about the ignition wires, and they say we really have to drive on to Manizales to find a specialist. That means climbing up to about 4,000m (more than 13,000ft) before descending again. We decide to go for it.

3-5pm: Hellish 2 hours of more of the same. Feels like the van is going to keel over any moment, and there’s hardly anywhere safe to pull over. Jeremy keeps telling me to move back in my seat, he can’t see in his wing mirror because I am a hunched-over ball of tension, leaning forward with my head in my hands. We are willing the van to just get to Manizales. We think we will make it although it will probably be dark when we do.

Sorry, on account of you officially having a Bad Day, we have had to close this road.

5pm: (one hour before dark). Another road block. The route is closed ‘for about an hour’ for urgent road works up ahead. No choice but to sit it out.

6.15pm: The road opens and we sputter ahead. We are going so slowly we are a hazard to ourselves and others. We come over one of the highest passes at twilight and can see the belching, snow-capped volcanic peak of El Ruiz ahead of us. The clouds are below the road. Spectacular.

7.15pm: Feels like we are never going to get there. Big delay when the road goes to one-track and two lines of traffic have a face-off. The truck ahead of us, and one coming the other way, have half their wheels up on the bank and are so tipped as they nudge past each other that the tops of their trucks are touching. I’m picturing being there all night if they topple over.

8pm: We finally arrive at the outskirts of Manizales. We’ve been so preoccupied we didn’t notice that none of the leaflets or guidebook actually have a proper address or directions to the finca we want to go to, but we know it’s about 20 minutes out of town. We stop and ask the police if they know it. The officer calls the finca – they say that it’s too complicated to find it in the dark, and suggest we get a hotel and call them in the morning for a chaperone. Tiredness, altitude and sheer bloody-mindedness affects our decision-making. We really, really, don’t want to go to a hotel, so we decide to screw that advice and try to find it anyway.

9pm: We are still asking around random taxi drivers and petrol stations for directions, and getting closer to finding out roughly where it is, although no one seems sure. We head out on what we think is the right highway.

The always-active El Ruiz volcano. An eruption in 1985 killed some 25,000 people.

9.30pm: We follow a sign to the area where we know the finca is. It immediately becomes a narrow downhill track with towering grass and bushes at either side, so we can’t see a thing ahead or around us. We are very tired, starving, and getting quite scared. All I can think of is that squeezing through this path reminds me of the Stephen King film Children of the Corn. We don’t really want to go on but there is nowhere to turn round either.

10pm: We finally see some light ahead and have a glimmer of hope it might be the finca. But as we turn the corner we see it is a luxury mansion. We pull up and the owner leans over his balcony to see what the hell is going on! Jeremy calls up to them for directions to the finca. Him and his grandson come down to the gate and explain that the owners of the finca are relatives of theirs. They know where it is, but it’s a bit complicated to get there – the most direct route requires crossing a river and the road has been washed away. As they explain the way we need to go, I finally crack. I just want to drink a barrel of wine and go to bed. I ask if we can safely sleep on the track near their house, as it is too late now to try to find the finca.

They insist we come into their property and park next to the house. When we pull up it looks like a scene from Father of the Bride – huge luxury home, swimming pool, and a manicured garden set out with gazebos and tables adorned with cloths and flowers, as if they are hosting a wedding. The whole family comes out to greet us – turns out the owner’s daughter is turning 50 the next day and they have gathered there to have a party for her.
They are so kind, asking if we need food or drink, and chatting to us about our trip. They say they will escort us to the finca in the morning. They show us to a bathroom we can use, and I am mortified to even step in there as my feet and legs are still caked with mud. Everything is so shiny and smart. We must (we do) look like tramps.

Getting ready to leave the morning after – pictured with two members of the family, Simon and Santiago.

11pm: We cook our dinner in the van, and every time we look outside we chuckle a little and cannot believe that this is how the day has ended. A horrid, stressful, day that ends with an act of kindness and some semblance of a sense of humour from us – not entirely atypical of this trip.
We pray that the van starts up in the morning and that this family does not have to have its posh party with our muddy van stranded next to the gazebo.

Days: 496
Miles: 16,371
Things we now know to be true: Tomorrow is, always, another day.