It's only Quiloto-a (but I like it)...

An exceptional three days exploring tiny indigenous villages in the Andes. Truly an outstanding highlight of the trip so far. We made a circuit of the Andean villages, beginning in a near-deserted place, Saquisili. Strolling into the tiny town on the Wednesday we found it to be a nice wee place, but no great shakes. 'Twas on the Thursday, however, that Saquisili erupted with the weekly market which sprawls across the whole town. Entire families of Quechuan people come from the neighbouring villages, almost anything can be bought in this market. The usual fruit, veg, meat, fish and flowers were surrounded by traditional thick ponchos, clothes, jewellery, household goods, baskets, fencing, metal doors, and parts for cars, bikes and carts. The really exciting things about the market are the animals for sale. Guinea pigs and rabbits were picked from their buckets by the ears, sold for modest sums for stews, soups and pies. Live chickens were grabbed out of tiny cages by head, wing or foot and thrown to the crowds. Chicks were grabbed by the fistful and chucked into sacks to join the rest of the menagerie, which rolled and pulsated in the back of pick up trucks as far as the eye could see. Skinned chickens hung up in plastic bags with blood dripping into the corners beside open pots of boiling pig's heads, trotters and tails (not so twirly in the cooking process it seems). At one point I negotiated the purchase of a blue-eyed Golden Retriever for the princely sum of $5. When i say negotiated, I mean that I asked the owner how much, he said "$6", I widened my eyes in disbelief and repeated "$6?", and he smirked and said "Oh, ok, $5". Textbook really. But unfortunately a puppy is for life, not just for a day at the market - although at that price the saying might need a rethink. I would have called him Tinger y'know...

Many of the Quechuan women charge a dollar for a photo, needless to say Woody would have been in grave danger of blowing the whole travel budget by lunchtime. Luckily with the long lens and a bit of stealth many an action photo was taken - unposed and natural. Take THAT indigenous culture trying to make an honest living for itself!

That afternoon we trundled on up the road to Zumbahua where we'd find a cheeky chap with a pickup truck to take us an extra ten miles to the volcanic crater of Quilotoa. We wound through the valleys and over the mountain passes watching the green patchwork of fields unfold in front of us. Llamas stared down with their glaekit expressions as we rumbled into the small settlement of only 100 people. The crater lake is magnificent - a humble gem which seems to be vastly overlooked by most tourists. The ol' dusty trail down to the shore is good fun, the water is aquamarine and the view up the crater walls and the rock formations make you feel tiny. Walk back up's a bit of a bitch, mind you. 3850 metres elevation is no joke. We stayed with a warm Quechuan family, eating soup and rice by the stove. We spoke to the daughter - basic Spanish conversation for dummies: "How many brothers and sisters do you have?" Four. "What do you want to study at university?" Medicine. Great fun to sit in a family environment, 'specially when you've got a big fat plate of piping soup inches from your face. They took delight in learning Scottish phrases... "Cheers for that Maria, what an absolute stoater of a meal!"

At night we went back to the edge of the volcano to take some spooky photographs. It was deathly quiet, and eerie panpipe music drifted over the valley. In the moonlight it felt like the most wild and interesting place. We followed our ears, tracing the music to a small garage where about a dozen men of all different ages were practicing. We peeked through a window before shyly knocking on the door and sitting in the corner to watch. The band was called 'La Voz de Quirotoa' and they loved to play. They were so enthusiastic in practice and it was a delight to watch them play their native music in the native setting. A fantastic Ecuador day.

With Andean spirit flowing in our veins we decided to seize the day, accepting the challenge to walk the 9 miles through the valley to the next town of Chugchilan (shortened to 'Chug' as the day went on). It turned out to be one of the most difficult but rewarding of our adventures thus far. With all our kit in tow, walking at altitude wasn't easy but the feeling of trekking into the Andean wilderness was exhilarating; scenery and adrenaline took as the first few miles in a blink. We passed a few isolated farmhouses, some of which had mangy dogs on alert. These dogs were really wild - not used to many people passing through - and on more than one occassion they took exception to our clanking, clunking amble through their territory. One little bastard chased us, gnashing his teeth and barking ("Will I kick it? Will I kick it? I'm gonna kick it"). As we stood trying to calm it and back away, Woody with her accident prone reputation at stake lost her footing and the enormous weight of her bag pulled her backwards down the slope some ten feet and scuffing her arm. At this point the owner arrived and grabbed our tormentor. First time I've ever heard Woody threaten a dog with brutal murder. This process of wild dog harrassment repeated itself throughout, although we quickly took to arming ourselves. Woody tooled up with some rocks and a pair of nail scissors (for thrusting into the jugular of the beast as dramatic music reaches crescendo), and I procured a large stick with which to beat them off if required. As the Gods would have it, no animal required beating off. Bit of blue, there. Bit of blue for the dads.

We also got lost, but in a good way. Up and down the valley we hiked, Woody coming undone in some solid looking mud up to her knees, until we realised that we had been at the right junction some two hours previous. In searching for this right path, I'm confident I set foot where no Scotsman ever has before - maybe even no person - for the sole reason that nobody of sane mind would enter these lands to look for another path. Felt like an old time highland clansman running up and down the precipices to scout the direction. We meandered down a spectacular canyon, up an old river bed, through a graveyard and trudged into Chug by dusk. An amazing day hiking, rewarded with a cold beer in the Andean fog, and some homecooked soup and potatoes. Dancer.

After a solid night's sleep and an exciting hot/cold shower (there was once a theory that 'Hell' as we know it was the constant alternating of the human body temperature between extreme heat and extreme cold on an eternal scale. This was quickly dispelled due to the reasoning that there would be a very brief moment of bliss when the temperatures balance out, on the way from one extreme to the other..... This was that shower) we hopped aboard the morning milk truck to Sigchos. The truck trundled along the mountain path, stopping to collect milk from the isolated farms (right hand side bucket) and delivering ot others (left hand side bucket). The whole journey felt like a real authentic Quechuan experience, similar to that of maybe fifty or one hundred years ago. Loved it.

We made it back to Latacunga where we began, and then set the ball rolling for 60 hours of bus within a 72 hour period. We decided that since the Machu Picchu debacle will warrant a return visit to Peru at some stage, we would try to blast through and into Bolivia by the weekend. Having read and heard so many good things about Bolivia, we got carried away and decided to hardcore it for the border. Although there is much to do in Peru, our wee hearts felt like Bolivia would just be a bit more unique (for us anyway). Whether this decision will prove to have been genius or shortsighted remains to be seen. I think in a way it reinforces that this whole experience is unique in itself. We're not trying to copy an adventure, we're trying to create one. We own it, it belongs to us - it's a journey we have complete control over (save for the odd natural disaster) and we will answer to nobody in that.

So after nine buses, all of varying quality - one had reclining seats, another had a drunk guy spewing out the window - some questionable towns (including one known only as '26K', which looked like the world's biggest bar room brawl) and wearing the same shoes for 60 hours we claimed the Bolivian border like a couple of outlaws at 7.29pm, one minute before the post closes for the night. We rolled into Copacabana as sundown set fire to the clouds above Lake Titicaca, the dulcet tones of Manilow ringing in our ears...