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Travel Writers: Flying Without Wings in Quito By
Emily Kerry
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Location: Quito, Ecuador
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The first time we see the Andes it's a shock. Out
of the plane's tiny window, I'm giggling like a little girl
at the giant clouds when, like a jolt of lightening, mountains
shoot up through the white. Majestical, but menacing. Are
we meant to be that close? My heart caught in my throat, I
look around. Cabin crew still calm. Maybe this isn't panic,
then, it's just the altitude.
Our descent to Quito is memorable. We're coming in
to land. Fast. No sign of a runway and we're flanked on either
side by bricks and mortar. The buildings are getting pretty
close. In moments we're be near enough to see faces inside.
Christ, we're attempting a crash landing on the high street.
Then from nowhere the pilot finds a runway. Welcome to Quito.
It's terra firma at just shy of 3000m and we're still walking
through clouds even though we've hit tarmac. |
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We visit El Mitad del Mundo, literally Middle Earth,
the point that marks the equator. The guidebook says there
are buses from Avenida Americas but tourists should
only catch the pink-striped ones. We wait and there's no bus
of any colour so I duck into a shop to ask. The shop turns
out to be full of big men and even bigger knives. Some garbled
Spanish and I duck straight back out. Back on Americas, a
bus to Middle Earth rolls up. It's green. We look at each
other and jump on. |
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Green means go to this driver. Before we've handed over our
coins he's back out of the pit stop. We fall towards the seats
- and everyone else - but he motions to us to stay up front.
You and your camera can only sit where you want on the pink
stripes. Instinctively, I reach for a seatbelt. No joy. It's
not even really a seat. The whole bus is in an advanced state
of decay. Ecuador's answer to fluffy dice are laid out before
me. A plastic Jesus, a plastic dolphin, stickers everywhere,
zebra-print fur covering the dashboard. Our vigilante driver
has a porn mag poking out of his trouser pocket.
I realise we've got front row seats to Quito Life. Past plastic
Jesus, the road stretches out in widescreen. Cars, trucks
and buses vie for road space. People are everywhere, selling
everything - fruit, calculators, maize, chewing gum, bracelets,
lotto tickets, water, handbags, watches, chickens. |
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At a busy junction a man is kneeling in the dirt between
cars, head rolled back, laughing. Traffic screeches by. Out
of nowhere, there's a Chevrolet, an entire family sat in the
boot amongst old sacking and oil drums, dressed in their church
best, off to some wedding or christening. The daughters hold
their thick, black hair back in the breeze, brushing grit
from their eyes. Scrap-heap scooters weave in and out of impossible
gaps. Am I dizzy with the heat or is it the lurching bus?
Now there's a woman running to catch us up, boxes, bags and
two tiny children grasped in her arms. She bundles them all
onto the moving bus. Our driver's only on green lights now.
And all the time, there's a cacophony of noise: hawkers bellowing,
horns bleeping, cars braking, babies bleating, music blaring,
and as we pass the airport, planes blazing, bringing others
down through the clouds, their engines roaring in our ears
and rattling the bus as they come in overhead to land. |
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Text © Emily Kerry 2004. Photos © Ian Kerrigan
2004 |
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