side of a steep-sided valley where a large river, the road and the railway all squeezed into the same canyon. I detoured from the Inca road to visit a sleepy town named Panzaleo, which preserves the name of the tribe which once ruled the area that is now Quito. There was a neat square topped by a long, low, whitewashed church, whose freshly painted dark green doors sported gold detailing. I went into a small grocery. The old woman wore traditional heavy multi-layered skirts and was onioned in cardigans. The two other customers fell silent. She served me first so they could all see what the Gringo would buy. I bought bananas, bread and cheese, and lunched under a young monkey-puzzle tree in the park. The grocery shops were time capsules for me, like the poorly stocked shops of inner-city Liverpool in the early fifties.
The Ambato road continued very steeply out of the back of the square. Rough cobbles gave way to a sandy rural lane. There were clouds of butterflies in the drying pools along the path, feeding on the salts which help them regulate their hormones. I felt I could do with a littlemyself. In the late afternoon I reached the village of Laguna Yambo, and called it a day.
The next morning, four boys, around eleven years old, stopped their bikes to interview me. I explained what I was doing.
‘Why don’t you just get the bus, you can be in Ambato in an hour, and if you are going to Peru, you can be at the border in twenty-four hours.’ They even priced the ticket for me.
‘But I couldn’t see the country or talk to people like you.’ The leader pursed his lips; this didn’t strike him as much of a plus.
‘So, did you walk here from England?’
‘No, I came by plane, the Atlantic Ocean is between Peru and England.’
They mounted their bikes to get back to school. One stood up on the pedals pointing across the valley. ‘The bus stop is over there.’
By early afternoon, I was on a ridge overlooking Ambato, five miles further on. It was a long, gentle descent: easy walking with the destination in sight. Life felt good. The Inca road enters the bustling city from a bluff high above the river. As it reaches the shanty suburbs, it suddenly becomes a fine cobbled Inca road. Ambato’s 175,000 people live on slopes so steep that the boring gridiron, which city planners try to impose on every location, couldn’t be made to work. The result is a more interesting place, with twists and turns, and views opening and closing. The few people out in the heat were as mad as I was, in their case from drinking caña , the dirtcheap pure alcohol distilled from cane. One stood on an orange box and lectured an invisible audience; anotherwas conducting an orchestra with great precision and seriousness. A third lay unconscious, dangerously close to the embers of a fire, holding his penis through his trousers and smiling, winning something in life, if only in his dreams. The road went over a high bridge above the river where a hundred or more people were washing their clothes and laying them out to dry on the grass, a mobile abstract painting.
Commercial streets are often themed, containing only one kind of business. The next hill was dedicated to automobiles. Each specialised: wheels, batteries, bumpers, diesels, suspension, lights, tools, gaskets and seals, bodywork, hi-fi, grilles, tyres, paints, custom paintwork, decoration, bull-bars and chrome. One sign simply said: ‘We make and repair everything.’ I found a hostel near the main square and sought out the civic archives. I found the edition of the daily paper, La Cronica , for 5 August 1949. It was the day time stood still in Ambato.
The new 1949 census proudly reported a prosperous and thriving new city. Its 34,378 inhabitants had no fewer than 1,267 lavatories, one for every 27 people. Cocoa production had grown, and, another headline predicted, tourism would bring millions to Latin America. There were some local and foreign concerns. The sucre was being devalued
The Ambato road continued very steeply out of the back of the square. Rough cobbles gave way to a sandy rural lane. There were clouds of butterflies in the drying pools along the path, feeding on the salts which help them regulate their hormones. I felt I could do with a littlemyself. In the late afternoon I reached the village of Laguna Yambo, and called it a day.
The next morning, four boys, around eleven years old, stopped their bikes to interview me. I explained what I was doing.
‘Why don’t you just get the bus, you can be in Ambato in an hour, and if you are going to Peru, you can be at the border in twenty-four hours.’ They even priced the ticket for me.
‘But I couldn’t see the country or talk to people like you.’ The leader pursed his lips; this didn’t strike him as much of a plus.
‘So, did you walk here from England?’
‘No, I came by plane, the Atlantic Ocean is between Peru and England.’
They mounted their bikes to get back to school. One stood up on the pedals pointing across the valley. ‘The bus stop is over there.’
By early afternoon, I was on a ridge overlooking Ambato, five miles further on. It was a long, gentle descent: easy walking with the destination in sight. Life felt good. The Inca road enters the bustling city from a bluff high above the river. As it reaches the shanty suburbs, it suddenly becomes a fine cobbled Inca road. Ambato’s 175,000 people live on slopes so steep that the boring gridiron, which city planners try to impose on every location, couldn’t be made to work. The result is a more interesting place, with twists and turns, and views opening and closing. The few people out in the heat were as mad as I was, in their case from drinking caña , the dirtcheap pure alcohol distilled from cane. One stood on an orange box and lectured an invisible audience; anotherwas conducting an orchestra with great precision and seriousness. A third lay unconscious, dangerously close to the embers of a fire, holding his penis through his trousers and smiling, winning something in life, if only in his dreams. The road went over a high bridge above the river where a hundred or more people were washing their clothes and laying them out to dry on the grass, a mobile abstract painting.
Commercial streets are often themed, containing only one kind of business. The next hill was dedicated to automobiles. Each specialised: wheels, batteries, bumpers, diesels, suspension, lights, tools, gaskets and seals, bodywork, hi-fi, grilles, tyres, paints, custom paintwork, decoration, bull-bars and chrome. One sign simply said: ‘We make and repair everything.’ I found a hostel near the main square and sought out the civic archives. I found the edition of the daily paper, La Cronica , for 5 August 1949. It was the day time stood still in Ambato.
The new 1949 census proudly reported a prosperous and thriving new city. Its 34,378 inhabitants had no fewer than 1,267 lavatories, one for every 27 people. Cocoa production had grown, and, another headline predicted, tourism would bring millions to Latin America. There were some local and foreign concerns. The sucre was being devalued
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