Mr Bunny Muses

One of our eagerly awaited trips from Quito was Lake Quilotoa. A water-filled crater lake, the most western volcano in the Ecuadorian Andes. For historians the caldera was formed

by the collapse of this dacite volcano following a catastrophic VEI-6 eruption about 800 years

ago. The dissolved minerals have created a shimmering aquamarine colour, far more dazzling that the described 'greenish colour' of the tourist literature. This was to be well worth the 'journey'.

We had not been in South America long and this was to be one of our first 'Bus' adventures.

This was not a luxury sleeper bus, of which we later grew to enjoy, but a standard bone shaker of a local bus designed merely to transport one, from one destination to another, with the minimalist of comfort. Indeed, each seat appeared predisposed to pick up the tremors of every loose stone in the road. It was apparent our Ecuadorian Conductor (driver) was a masterful navigator, using the stones in the road to dot to dot his way for four hours from Quito to Quilotoa.

On arrival Quilotoa takes your breath away, literally, at 12,844 ft at it's highest point, like Quito everything seems harder to achieve. Once you have taken a moment to acclimate, you are presented with the privilege of parting with 2 whole US dollars each for entry, to the town. Having arrived late in the afternoon and the lake being a morning thing we headed for our accommodation. Budgeting for a 15 month trip,  accommodation was to be basic and low cost. On this particular occasion basic appeared to be abandoned and 

desolate. Enter true 'idiotic' British philosophy, on my part admittedly, and the desire to sort one's own predicament. Having seen us approach this quiet empty hotel, the lady who politely collected our dollars came over from the town barrier to offer help. It's ok we can manage, 'we'll contact booking.com' oh my, the thought this lady would have heard of that was bizarre in itself, her gazed expression I possibly later deciphered as a comic gesture of 'contact how?' as of course there was no internet to be had in this remote mountain region of Ecuador. At least not for O2 anyhow, although it's recent acquisition by virgin appears to even have restricted coverage in Lancashire, another issue of course. 

Surprisingly the Dollar Lady persisted with her kind and helpful intentions and even offered us her house instead of the hotel. This we later found would have been a perfectly wonderful solution, however, having dug that British hole of self supportiveness this kind offer was declined, again lamentedly by my goodself. Perseverance being the character of our Dollar Lady, 10 minutes later she returned with a key for a room in the empty hotel, presumably having found the owner somewhere relaxing and enjoying some form of Peruvian juice? 

The room itself had 3 beds, a bonus for 3 travellers and a private bathroom, no thrills, no shower gel, shampoo or even toilet roll, luckily however, we were prepared for that. Our economically focused abode was decorated in white concrete, with an exceptionally cold concrete bathroom floor and a fixed open window we later surmised was to allow an atmosphere of Arctic freshness. 

Dollar Lady again to the rescue with a portable heater, delivered with that same sardonic smile that highlighted the madness of our folly, and an awareness in her eyes acknowledging the acts of the truly insane, albeit we were not to realise until the following morning.

No TV, no Wifi, with just the joys of trying to get warm we decided an early night the best option, with the hope of a good breakfast somewhere to positively start our Quilotoa adventure.

Last to the bathroom as always, toilet roll in hand I quicky washed in the icy water, then perused the frosty looking Throne and decided that that particular pleasure could wait. Knowing my wayfaring companions well, however, and the potential for cold-induced diuresis, I felt leaving the toilet tissue prominent was the least I could do, and this is where my nightmare began.

There I am in the coldest latrine this side of the Arctic Ocean, and obviously not dressed for a polar expedition. No body heat trapping layers, no thick woolly hat or gloves, just my bed shorts and a frozen face already showing genuine signs of melancholy. Add to this my other frozen extremities (behave please), my fingers and toes, and I really am quite anxious to complete my simple self/inflicted assignment and go and find my very own Ecuadorian heavy duty, 'Itchy del Diablo' blanket! 

With one deep breath, the icy air biting at my throat, I reach for my pocket and with numb fingers retrieve the toilet roll I have so diligently carried through our first month in South America. With no feeling at all in my fingers and relying on sight alone, despair sets through my whole body as an horrific image materialises in front of me. The slightly squished cardboard housing with white wrap around tissue was now spiralling out of control before my very eyes. My prized possession that I had fastidiously guarded throughout Colombia was now rebelliously travelling on it's own path. A path with only one perceivable destination, a watery grave that would surely disrupt the hydrogen bonds holding the cellulose fibres together, thereby rendering my treasured tissue ineffectual. Borne across hundreds of miles for this purpose, at this most crucial and testing juncture of our journey so far, it descends towards the icy bowl of doom.

Frantically my eyes communicate with my brain to send messages to my fingers to 'DO SOMETHING'. The phalanges and metacarpals are frozen stiff, and the subsequent 'doing' merely results in a Sealion-like flapping of the objects on the ends of my arms. Surely the noise is not really echoing through the building giving the impression I am clapping myself. This image is thankfully quick to recede, as one of my petrified limbs makes contact with the recalcitrant loo roll. 

As my juggling efforts begin my head fills with the sounds of 'entry of the gladiators', and the circus begins. Having never trained as a circus jester, despite what others may say, I am by no means a Harlequin, and my conjuring efforts, however full of intent were woefully futile and my loo roll now lay floating in the great porcelain lake of Acheroussia.

During the aforementioned catastrophe only the smallest fraction of the clock had ticked by, though it felt like hours, now a recovery plan was needed. 

First, assess the situation. On retrieval from the bowl, as anticipated, the hydrogen bonds were no more, my formerly densely fibered tissue was a mass of soggy sheets perilously held together by who knows what. 

Second, breakdown the main goal to manageable tasks, recover roll, delicately squeeze out water, layout to dry. Half way there, action plan agreed and approved.

Fortunately the recovery was remarkably easy and due to clear water (no yellow colouring) did not require the use of gloves. The predicament was of course exacerbated when plunging my already insensitive hands into the icy depths of the porcelain pond. 

I have to admit my next course of action would not identify me as the brightest crayon in the box, and would leave a feeling that the lift was falling someway short of the top floor! I carefully unwound the drenched roll and placed it in strips on the windowsill, yes the very same windowsill with the fixed open window. 

Now with the notion that hours had passed I steadied myself for the Kangeroo Court I felt destined to encounter and gently returned to the bedroom as if nothing had happened. My luck was in as all I could hear beneath the piles of wool on each of the other beds was a catlike purring (honest), synonymous with the peaceful slumbering sounds of my muliebrious companions.

Proud of my quick thinking, lack of panic and self motivated desire for survival, I vanished into my own mountain blanket, and lay silent and immobile, until it felt safe to embrace the dreams of the night. These happy thoughts drifted in and out pleasantly, until the very early hours of the morning proved that not only was my blanket an inadequate supplier of warmth, it was and never would be soundproof. 

A shrill cry akin to that of a Banshee echoed across the plains and valleys of northern Ecuador. My seemingly flawless plan it transpired had a few, or particularly one, huge hole. My delicately placed rows of tissue sheets had frozen to the windowsill, and with the best will in the world were unusable. Now, in the state of the panic I was previously gratified to have avoided, I heard the words 'shake' and 'lettuce' emit from my now uncontrollable oral orifice. The alarm bells in my head at this vocal escape were only dampened by the second far more penetrating and haunting Banshee cry, confirming this was not an acceptable solution.

I have always been a believer in the philosophy of fight or flight, however where a flight option is not available 'fight' or 'out of sight' ticks my self preservation box, and so before any physical recriminations were forth coming I hastened myself back to my skin prickling woolly den and battened down my hatches until morning.

Morning announced itself not with the sound of Cockerels or the bleating of Llamas, as they were surely still asleep in their cosy fur, but with the most spectacular of sunrises. Enough to warm any potentially frosty atmosphere.

A new day dawned and with the shenanigans of last night 'almost' forgotten it was time to source breakfast. The breakfast that came with the empty and abandoned hotel?

Surprisingly on inspection breakfast was detailed and confirmed to be in a separate hotel, just a couple of hundred yards away. We speculated a friendly reception and rather than leave our backpacks to freeze we departed our icebox with hopeful hearts that they would be safe with the makers of our morning sustenance. 

We had not ventured far at all before welcoming lights in a window beckoned us nearer, and we had found our source of breakfast. We entered and immediately were immersed in the heat of the room. A glowing fire in the corner was supplemented with a huge heater in the middle of the room. Wine racks on the walls, colourful lamps and cosy settees bedecked this comfortable palace. Oh how we wished we had stayed the night here, at which point our host arrived and the previous nights humbling experience with the toilet roll paled into insignificance, as there in front of us with a bright smiling face was the Dollar Lady, this was HER house!!!

Breakfasted, happy and ready for the day we strolled through the empty village in what was becoming an increasingly warm sunny day. The horrors of the previous night were long forgotten once the lake came into view. There is a walk around the perimeter of the lake and also a path down to it's shores. This is however a challenging walk of say an hour down and a couple of hours back up. Not for us, we enjoyed a relaxing sit on the bank with a little wander along the topside. 

If you are visiting Ecuador and Quito in particular Lake Quilotoa is definitely worth a visit, just pick your times and accommodation carefully, and prepare yourself for a tricky bus ride.