The Galápagos Islands have been both a blessing and a curse for Ecuador. The iconic archipelago — regarded as the most biodiverse on the planet — is one of the leading attractions in South America and has long been a magnet for travellers. The problem for Ecuador, however, is that most of those visiting the archipelago tend to bypass the mainland. Typically, tourists fly into Quito, the colonial capital of the tiny nation, rest their heads for the night and jet off the next day to spot boobies (the winged kind) in the Galápagos.
But the times, they are a-changing. With its newfound oil wealth, the Ecuadorian government has invested in ambitious programmes to attract well-heeled visitors to the mainland; a little-known treasure trove of wonders that has been luring intrepid travellers for decades but has remained largely undiscovered by the luxury travel set. Its flagship project is a US $280 million redevelopment of the country’s historic railway, which was officially unveiled this summer.
And that is why I’m here at Quito’s newly renovated Chimbacalle station, boarding a train in the lofty Ecuadorian capital. Nestling in a picturesque valley some 2,800-metres above sea level, the city is within throwing distance of the equator and its historic Old Town is a splendid maze of cobbled streets, colonial architecture and Catholic churches. These dazzling attributes helped it become one of UNESCO’s first ever World Heritage Sites (along with Kraków in Poland) in 1978. It’s also a working city; asthmatic buses wheeze around narrow streets, whistle-blowing policemen direct traffic and vendors peddle their wares to busy commuters.
That’s the bustle I leave behind as the train rattles through the suburbs, passing just yards from people’s front doors, which open to reveal waving children, barking dogs and the odd curmudgeon who doesn’t seem to be entering into the spirit of things. Men on motorcycles escort our train out of the city, warning those ahead of the approaching locomotive. “They aren’t used to it yet,” explains the carriage attendant, as we leave Quito and climb into the misty countryside, where grazing cattle and waving farmers await.
It’s an idyllic, rural scene that belies the violent activity going on beneath us. After all, this is the Avenue of Volcanoes, a volatile boulevard of lava-spewing mountains that have devastated this region before and will surely do it again — geologists claim a big one is imminent. Mercifully, all is quiet when I hop off the train at Machachi station to visit Cotopaxi, which, at 5,897 metres, is Ecuador’s highest active volcano. “When she erupts, that’s it for this valley,” says my local guide, Pablo Tufiño, cheerfully.
Despite its fearsome reputation, Cotopaxi is hiding behind clouds when I peer up at its peak, so I hike around the foothills to admire the scenery. It’s a glorious stomp, albiet marred by a bout of altitude sickness, which eases over a bowl of quinoa soup at the nearby Hosteria Tambopaxi. Also easing is the cloud; finally, a snow-topped Cotopaxi reveals herself, looming over the valley with grace and menace.
A LIFE LINE
The restoration of Ecuador’s railways started in 2008 and reached a milestone this summer when the historic 450-kilometre line between Quito and the coastal city of Guayaquil was reopened. When this route was first inaugurated in 1908 it unified a nation previously divided by the Andean foothills.
“Before the train, if you wanted to go from Quito to Guayaquil you wrote your will — it was a very dangerous journey,” explains Pablo. “When they built the railway our country became one.”
However, Ecuador’s trains fell out of fashion during the 1970s as the nation took to the Panamericana — the 48,000-kilometre blacktop highway that runs the length of the Americas, connecting Argentina’s Tierra del Fuego in the far south with northern Alaska. The redundant railways suffered a silent plight in the harsh Andean environment; rain washed sections of track away and landslides buried other segments under mud and rocks. By the mid-noughties only two short sections remained open and these were operated by private tour companies.
But now, the railways are back and passengers looking to jump aboard have two options: they can either take an organised tour or hop on and off along the route as they please. I opt for the latter and find myself disembarking once again, this time at Urbina station, which, at 3,618- metres above sea level, is the highest station on the line.
This lofty outpost sits in the foothills of the inactive Chimborazo volcano; at 6,268-metres, it is the highest mountain in Ecuador and, thanks to the equatorial bulge, its summit is the closest point on earth to the sun. I tell you this because I have very little else to say about the mountain, chiefly because I can’t see it. In fact, I can barely see the end of my nose thanks to the thick fog.
But it is there according to a chap called Baltazar, who I meet at the station. He is best known in Ecuador as “the last ice merchant”, a moniker he has earnt by following the family tradition of climbing Chimborazo to collect ice from its glaciers. He has been doing this twice a week since he was a child. He is now 68.
The tradition dates back to the colonial era when the Spanish sent locals up to the mountains to fetch ice. Many men used to ply this trade, but fridge freezers have all but banished the job to the history books — Baltazar is the last ice man standing. His story is so inspiring that in 2012 a film was made about him called, The Last Ice Merchant, which premiered at the Tribeca Film Festival in 2012.
Through a local interpreter, I quiz Baltazar about his trade. He tells me it takes four hours to climb the volcano; during the ascent he weaves baskets to carry the ice back down. “I make them out of grass,” he says, demonstrating his technique. “I chip off 12 blocks and bring them down on donkeys to sell at market.” Each block fetches $5 and although demand has tailed off, loyal clients stick by him, claiming the million-year-old ice has nutrients you don’t get anywhere else. I ask Baltazar how much longer he’ll work as an ice merchant. “I will go to Chimborazo until I go to God,” he smiles.
NEW HORIZONS
He might be the purveyor of ice, but Baltazar is a warm soul. My meeting with him is one of the highlights of my trip, the other being the railway itself as it snakes its way down the infamous Devil’s Noose, a steep, snout-shaped mountain widely regarded as the toughest test for trains on the planet. Zigzagging through switchbacks and skirting along steep stretches of track laid inches
from the rocky precipice, it’s easy to see how this route earnt the bragging rights to such a title.
Completed in 1902, a more fitting name for the perilous railroad might have been the Devil’s Nose; of the 5,000 workers who constructed it, half were killed in the process. A small museum at Sibambe station, which sits in the shadows of the mountain at the base of the Devil’s Nose, explains how disease and dynamite accidents sealed the fate of the largely Caribbean workforce, recruited, so the story goes, on account of their superior strength.
The indigenous community at Sibambe, resplendent in their traditional garb, greet passengers with singing, traditional dancing and herds of inquisitive alpacas as the train pulls into the station. There’s a carnival atmosphere and a small market where you can purchase local handicrafts.
“Before the railway there was no restaurant, no bar and no museum, but that’s changed and now people here have work,” enthuses Manuel Mendoza, the poncho-wearing museum curator. “It is good for our community.”
And it’s good for tourists, who can once again experience this spectacular railway and discover a country in the process of rediscovering itself.