ECUADOR: Full of Piss and Vinegar

I'M AT: Secret Garden Hostel, Quito. See below.
Days four and five in Quito.

Met Colin in the bigger of the two central parks, by the volleyball nets, both late somehow, cabbed it to foot of Teleférico, a newbuild cable car in the west of the city. Bottom rung a pin-new park of swings and takeaways. In car, with small local family, we swung pretty quickly to the top, ears popping, of what is the park Ruca Pichincha, a now-extinct volcano. From viewpoint with pipes panning we schlepped up the hill, past a tentful of leather-skinned horsemen, and their charges, with silver footrests, nibbled at yellow tufts.

The altitude really kicked in. We climbed to 4200 feet with views of the vast expanse of Quito, and paused for breath and water, then we could look at the tops of clouds, and were actually above the gleaming white planes. Quite odd to see them skim across the surface of the sky, with us, angular boatmen, dipping. Thank god for the meniscus.

Anyway we were pretty much done after two hours walk and puff, and back down to a waiting gluwein bar, spicy red cinnamon in hot afternoon, perfect.

After descent, the afternoon was whiled away in the Turtle´s Head, a proper, well, English pub really, run by a Scotsman with a Glaswegian-Spanish accent, and very steamy barmaids, in school uniforms, 20ish. The busty one kept bending over to stick and re-stick a label at my groin-height. Nice.

AND THEN TO GUAGUA PICHINCHA

The next day (Saturday) we set off quite early in Brad´s landrover for a trek to the summit of Baby Pichincha, the angry one. GuaGua last threw up all over the countryside in 1999, and it´s still rumbling. I say a trek to the summit - really it´s to two summits, the pre-1999 one, which is still marked as the main summit on the topographical maps, and then to the new summit, which is yet to be surveyed.

It was bloody freezing as we hit the refugio, after one and a half hours of acclimatising walk (read: lungbursting and heartpounding). Sat for bananas and chocolate biscuits in the cold lodge. Watched with astonishment as two lyra-clad Ecuadorians pushed their mountain bikes up the steep incline we´d just hauled ourselves up. Incredible.

And so to the main assault.

Now whilst Brad, the tour leader, kept impressing upon us that this was an easy climb, he later pointed out that a good Canadian friend of his is now one of the top climbers in his country, and these guys had done masses of climbing. He led the way whilst we sort of shuffled along, well, some of us shuffled.

The wind blew and we were above cloud level, and I just sat and my teeth chattered, and whilst I was feeling pretty fit and no effects of altitude, I was so nervous at the sheer drops and the fact that the path was (a) very steep, (b) made of sand and shingle, so very slippery, and (c) the width of my shoulders. I really wasn´t looking forward to it but everyone pushed me on, lovely people, Matt, Brad, Colin, Tina, Mark, Camilla - salutations. I´m pretty sure I still owe some of you a beer.

Brad´s advice grew from being quite homely to something quite different - dig in with your toe; keep to the right edge of the ridge; if you feel like your head´s exploding or you´re going to pass out, tell the next person; stick together; use your arse, cos sand washes out, blood is trickier to shift; that sort of thing.

It wasn´t until we´d made the second, higher summit, and after he´d shook my hand and hugged me, that he came out with the "full of piss and vinegar" line, and I remembered it from my childhood, as did he. I reckon it means full of life, or full of lies, one of the two. It stuck with me though.

The descent through skree and sand was scrambled and great fun. And then he told us the hostel was laying on a free happy hour for us. So we drank.

And drank.

And now it´s Sunday.