Footloose Scot (12 page)

There were one or two Panamanian Army soldiers hanging around near the village, and the headman made gestures to me that I should show the soldiers my passport. I did, and they stamped it. I was now clear to leave Panama. First I had to hike to the last village before the frontier, called Paya. Apart from the fact that one of my two cameras had gotten wet in the dugout canoe, I was feeling pretty good. I was making good progress, and I would soon be completely on my own for the exciting part.

It was hot, but not overwhelmingly so. It was March, and I was still in the northern hemisphere. I felt fit, and I carried food. Water was readily available in the jungle streams. At one village, an American missionary came out of a hut, and said "Where have all you guys been?" Apparently there had been very few hikers in the past few months, which was the hiking season. I suggested that the invasion of Panama might be the reason. He wished me good luck and told me to be careful.

The guidebook mentioned hiring a guide in Paya for the crossing into Colombia. I felt that with the guidebook to consult and with a good trail to follow, I could do this myself. I had a stove, some snack food and some tablets for purifying water. I should be able to make it to the first village inside Colombia in one long day's hike. I didn't fear attack by wild animals since the jungle had long since been hunted pretty clean by the Indians. I didn't see drug smugglers using this sort of trail, they had long since moved to large scale methods of transportation, even submarines. Two years later, when the drug war in Colombia had heated up, the situation would radically change and through-hikers would be stopped by the Panamanian Army. For now, I felt safe.

For five hours I plodded uphill on a good trail through thick jungle vegetation and high tree cover. Then, as the trail leveled out, I noticed on the left side of the trail a rectangular piece of stone sticking out of the ground, with Colombia and Panama marked on the side. This was
Palo de las Letras,
the frontier stone. I was stepping into South America. There was no one on the trail; in fact I had not seen anyone since leaving Paya. I was now in South America.

The trail now led downhill. I shortly came to a river crossing. This was the first of four crossings of the same winding river, all within a short distance. Before the fourth crossing, the guidebook said, veer to the left and follow along the river bank; do not cross there. The problem was that when I got to the fourth crossing there was no sign of any trail to the left.

There were however, ribbons attached to some bushes on the other side of the river, the sort that are used to mark orienteering trails in the USA. I took this as a sign to cross and did so, easily wading across the shallow stream. But twenty yards ahead the trail suddenly ended, a wall of vegetation in front. What the heck, I wondered. Why the ribbons if this were not the right direction? Usually ribbons are used to indicate the route, not a dead end. Mystified, I put down my pack and climbed a small tree. All around, and as far as I could see, was a green blanket of jungle. No trail this way.

When I got back down the tree, I could not find my pack. My large blue external frame backpack was missing. In a moment I panicked. Now I really was in trouble. I looked around the other side of the tree, and the pack had fallen over, and was partially obscured by a bush. Feeling reassured that I had found the backpack; I also felt I was maybe getting disoriented through dehydration. I decided to take a few moments, make a cup of tea with the water from the river and decide what to do next. I had plenty of time. It was not yet noon.

It was hot so I sat in the river to cool off. I boiled up a pan of water, made tea and considered my options No one who might know the route was likely to come along for a long time, certainly not any backpackers. There was no local foot traffic between the two countries. There seemed to be one option only: to go back to Paya and get a guide.

Admitting that I had gotten lost and needed a guide was not a good position to be in when negotiating a price. With no bargaining power I resigned myself to paying the headman US$50 for three young guides to take me into Colombia the next day. When I was introduced to the guides, I saw that they were kids, barely twelve years old. The tallest one carried an old Lee Enfield rifle, which I doubted would work and hoped we wouldn't have to test it.

After another night in Paya, I set out the next day with my youthful companions. We passed the stone marking the frontier, took a photograph and then followed the trail until the third river crossing. Just before this crossing the boys turned sharply left along the river bank. I had not thought to check the third crossing otherwise I would have seen the trail. My counting must have been off. I was not thinking clearly. Still, there was no harm done except for a depletion of my funds and a question to myself about my decision-making under stress. The boys scampered ahead, and I plodded behind them carrying my pack.

After five long hours we arrived at a handful of houses in the jungle, the first settlement in Colombia. In a shack which sold groceries I got my passport stamped by the smiling owner. He was tall and much darker in complexion than a Panamanian. This was a different race of people, taller and blacker, and I could see that my young escorts were not at ease. So I thanked them and told them they could go home. I put up my tent on a patch of ground near the grocer's shop.

Now I faced the same sequence of transportation as in Panama, but in reverse. I walked, then took a dugout canoe to the village of Bijao, and then in a motor dugout to Travesia. The terrain here was flatter, more like swamp land, than on the Panama side of the border. From Travesia the motor boat continued downstream on the ever widening River Atrato through an area rich in birdlife (kingfishers, herons and hummingbirds) until we reached the river estuary and entered the Gulf of Urabu. I was now with a group of local folks, and the motorboat would take us to Turbo, a way station on the Caribbean coast.

Halfway across the isthmus in the Gulf of Urabu, a Colombian naval ship intercepted us. It was a small coastal vessel but nevertheless it towered above our motorboat. Since I was the only white person in the boat, I was not surprised when an officer shouted for me to come on board and show my papers. So I climbed up a rope thrown from the ship, and showed my passport with the stamp from the village shop. This seemed to satisfy them.

The motor boat arrived in Turbo an hour later, and we disembarked at a crowded quay with lots of fishing boats tied up and the clamor of a trading place. It was hot and smelled of fish. According to the venerable, 1380-page
South American Handbook,
then in its 65
^th
year of publication: "Turbo is the centre of banana cultivation, which is booming. It is a rough frontier community, not too law abiding and tourists are advised to be very careful." My Bradt guidebook was more brief: "This place reeks of evil."

I stepped onto the quay and headed away from the dock. I got a few stares since a white man carrying a large backpack was unusual. I find it important in this sort of place to look as if you know where you are going, even if you don't. So I strode purposefully through streets crowded with merchandise and groups of people talking, passing shops and a bus station until I reached the town center. I found a simple hotel with a good lock on the door to my room, and had my first shower since leaving Margot's ranch six days previously. Next I found an immigration office on the waterfront where I got an official entry stamp. Later, as I ate a meal of fried fish and rice I found out there was a flight the next day to Medellin. This would save me fourteen hours in a bus, so I planned to walk out to the airport early the next morning and see about buying a ticket. This didn't seem like a place to linger, and I felt I had earned some comfort after my six-day trip through Darién province.

Medellin was a large bustling place, but I did not intend to stay. This was the time of maximum media publicity about the strength of the Medellin drug cartel. My plan was to move on immediately to Ecuador which had a reputation as a good destination for backpackers: a stable government, low prices and lots of outdoors activities.

At Medellin airport I climbed on a bus with "Centro" on the front, and immediately got into trouble with my backpack. There was a turnstile which passengers passed through when they had paid the driver. My bulky pack and a crowded bus did not go together. The pack got jammed, and I got embarrassed. Some kind man helped me maneuver it over the top of the turnstile, and I stood in the aisle with the pack blocking the way for other passengers. No one seemed upset or even very interested.

The temperature was a lot cooler than on the coast since Medellin sits at 4,879 feet. It was a prosperous industrial city, circled by mountains, with a fast-growing population of 2.2 million. The streets were full of traffic and the sidewalks crowded with well dressed people. I found the tourism office and got a street map. I then went to the post office and sent a telegram to Margot to say I had arrived safely in Medellin. Then I headed for the bus station to catch the next long distance bus going south towards the Ecuador border.

The bus station was eerily quiet. Had there been a bomb scare? The place somehow seemed sinister. I felt people were looking at me. It's funny how one interprets things differently according to mood. On another day, or accompanied by friends, I wouldn't have given a second thought to whether the bus station was safe. On this occasion, I felt distinctly uneasy, and was happy when the bus pulled out.

Ecuador had a good reputation with backpackers in 1990: safer by a long chalk than Colombia and inexpensive. It is small, the second smallest republic in South America (176,204 square miles) with a population (40% of whom were Indians) of around 9.6 million (1986 statistics).The Andes form the central backbone to the country, running north to south from the Columbian border to the border with Peru. To the west is the Pacific Ocean, and 600 miles offshore the Galapagos Islands. In the eastern tropical lowlands the rivers drain into the Amazon. I had no inclination to go to the Galapagos and was content to relax in Quito and take a couple of side trips.

I finally arrived in Quito after a long bus ride through the night, and a change of buses at the Colombia/Ecuador border. At 9,350 feet, the second highest capital in South America, it is set in a hollow at the foot of the towering Pichincha volcano. There was the expected Plaza and Cathedral and some monumental government buildings but the charm lay in the steep cobbled street in the colonial center. Interestingly, the dramatic location and the low prices had spurred a growth of language schools in Quito, and there were plenty of US and European youngsters frequenting the cheap restaurants.

My sister-in-law in London had given me some advice earlier when I told her of my visit to Quito: watch your pockets. Apparently Quito has some very deft pickpockets. She was French and her father had been in a French foreign service and at one time served as ambassador to Ecuador. Shortly after arriving in Quito, during a sightseeing tour of the city, his pocket was picked and his wallet stolen. The Ecuadorian personnel on the embassy staff told him not to worry; they would get the word out on the street, and for a fee the wallet could be bought back. This is exactly what happened. I didn't think I would make such an obvious target as an ambassador, but I moved my wallet to a safer spot.

Prices for sweaters and other wool products were low. They were so low that I decided to call friends in Houston and tell them I could buy a dozen colored Ecuadorian sweaters, and airmail them to the USA for little over $100, thereby solving much of their Christmas present shopping. And I did it.

Baños, three and a half hours by bus from Quito, is known as the gateway to the jungle. Surrounded by steep green mountainsides, it is clean, colorful, compact, and has famous hot springs from which it gets its name - an ideal center for hiking and climbing. I settled into a guest house, Hostal Agoyan so soon after the previous guest had left that the bed was still warm. The next morning I rented crampons and an ice axe from a rental shop with a view to climbing nearby Mt. Tungurahua, a dormant volcano.

I walked from Baños to the village of Pondoa where I started up the mountain. After a steep climb on a well-worn trail, I reached the refugio Santos Ocana at 12,500 feet. Three young Germans, two men and a woman, were already there and, like most German travelers, well prepared. They shared some food with me and we agreed to travel together the next morning up to the snow line and then to the summit, four hours away.

It was still dark when we left the hut the next morning. The gradient was steep and the loose stone surface unstable, so it was actually a relief to reach the snowline and to put on crampons, equipment I had not used in twenty years. There was something satisfying about the noise of the crampons biting into the iced-over snow, knowing that one's footing was secure. As we trudged up the snowfield, slowly since the angle of the slope was 45 degrees, the sky gradually dawned revealing the green and brown terrain below us and the peak close ahead.

We were all going at our own pace, since there was no need for a rope. Just when it was fully light, the slope eased off and we were on top, at 16,404 feet. I was first to arrive, and shook the hands of the Germans when they came shortly after. They looked surprised so I said I thought Germans always shook hands when reaching a summit - something I had observed in the Alps twenty years previously. Apparently not any more, or not with these Germans. By now the clouds had started to swirl around us, blocking any distant views, so we lolled around on the hard snow breathing harder in the rarified air and enjoying the familiar feeling of satisfaction whenever any summit is reached.

After sharing some food and taking some photos, we started the long trudge down to the hut, and continued straight on until we reached the road to Baños, then finally the last stretch into Baños itself. It was good to share the pleasure of being on the summit as well as the tedium and pain of the descent with a pleasant group of people. Too often I am so used to doing these sorts of trips on my own that I forget the joys of sharing experiences. It was even better to share a long immersion with them in one of the town's hot springs.