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Which way´s the loo?

Ter:

The little town of Baños is nestled under the ogre-ous Tungurahua volcano which still erupts quite regularly. About once every hundred years or sometimes twice in five years. When you are near an exploding volcano you learn all sorts of useful terms like pyroclastic flow. Wikipedia describes pyroclastic flow as, ``a common and devastating result of some volcanic eruptions. They are fast-moving fluidized bodies of hot gas, ash and rock which can travel away from the vent at up to 150 km/h.

Fortunately we got to see our first pyroclastic flow, it such a great term I want to use it as often as possible, from a safe distance.

We had gone horse riding because we thought for some odd reason that it would be a good idea. I was never that fond of sitting anyway but more on that later. Pyroclastic flow, it just trips off the tongue. We had ridden up a rather steep hill which had a delightful view of the town below. We were standing at the lookout point, imaginatively called 'bellavista', enjoying the view, when way in the distance, down at the bottom off the hill this rumbling noise starts and then giant boulders come pouring out the mountainside like evil, black icing sugar being dusted over a rather bad truffle.

We're about 2 kilometers away and it sounds like we're standing beneath Victoria falls. The distance is good though I'm not complaining. Our guide, imaginatively called 'Jose' tells us that what we are witnessing is called pyroclastic flow.

As for the horse riding it proved to be far more painful than the pyroclastic flow, sorry I can't help myself. Four hours in a saddle not only ruined the inside of my thighs but also removed large sections of my bum making it largely impossible for me to sit. Gosh I do love riding.

We were in an action, adventure kind of mood so we also decided to throw in a spot of river rafting and this is how I came to imbibe large portions of the river Patatse. Indeed, I will be bring half the river home with me secreted away in various parts of my intestines and stomach. In a grave miscalculation after the horse riding removed the use of my legs, the rafting has removed the use of my arms. All I can do is lie down, moaning and occasionally burp up small bits of river. In fact, I am dictating this blog entry between cries of pain. It was great deal of fun though and I can't wait to do it again.

Baños is the spanish word for bath, so as you would expect there are baths in Baños, much like there are baños in Bath. After ruining your body through various different means a bath is wonderful thing.

Georgi:

Wheeeee! Exciting things happen in South America.

We (this would be us, our guide and our horses) were waiting out a bit of rain in a shelter halfway up the mountain overlooking Baños, when some Germans who were also up there pointed out something very strange happening in the valley below. A little tributary to the river that runs past the town had formed a waterfall of rumbling black gunge.

Our guide told us that it was a pyroclastic flood - ash and rocks from the volcano at a temperature of about six hundred degrees hurtling down the mountain side. When we asked how this could be, considering that the volcano was supposed to have stopped erupting a month ago, the guide just shrugged. There seems to be no knowing what a volcano will get up to.

We could actually hear the boulders thundering down the valley, and the rumbling set off all the car alarms in town, so it all sounded very end of the worldish from up in the mountains.

The air was filled with grit and ash, and we all ended up covered in a fine silty layer of black that only got smudgy with attempts to clean it off.

The guide assured us that we were perfectly safe. Because he's a fireman when he's not taking gringos up the mountain, we believed him.

The last time the volcano threatened to erupt, in 1999, the authorities evacuated Baños, but after two months of nothing happening, the people got a bit tense, and stormed back through the military blockades. Nothing bad happened.

This gives me the worrying feeling that the townsfolk don't take the volcano as seriously as they should. Our guide even told us that the last time there was a pyroclastic flood he had to help evacuate a small town in its path. One old man chased him off at gunpoint, saying that he'd rather die in his house than leave. After the flood, in which almost the entire village was vaporised, they went back to the old man's house to find only half of it had been buried by the ash. They dug a tunnel to the doorway and there was the old man, still clutching his gun, still telling them to leave him in peace. They asked him how he'd felt during the flood.

"Muy caliente! (very hot!)" he replied.

As it's name would suggest, Baños is also famous for its baths. Baños means bath. It also means loo in the same way as bathroom means loo in South Africa. Ter thought this wasn't a great name for a town, especially considering that all restaurants and bus stations have a sign pointing to the baños, which makes it very complicated trying to figure out where the bus for Baños departs from, and where the toilet is.

Anyway, the town's full name is Baños de Agua Santa, which means "Baths of the Holy Waters", which made Ter a little happier.

When you've done something as idiotic as ridden a horse for four hours, galloping some, and then followed that up with a day of river rafting, your body will be kind of achy. The best thing you can do is go and hang out in a hot public bath. This also allows you to watch the spectacle of old Spanish men with walrus moustaches walk around in leopard-print Speedos. I love them.

The weird cloudy yellow water - sulphur, not urine (I hope) - also makes it possible for strange old men to sneak their hands onto your thigh. I was a bit confused by this because I'm never sure if I'm just being a prissy South African, or if I am, in fact, being molested. After all, our guide up the Quilotoa crater practically suffocated me in a bear hug every time he wanted to show me a nice view, so it's clear that personal space has different boundaries in South America. But this particular old man was also getting very chatty and Ter and I were trying to relax, so we made our excuses and went and plunged into an icy pool, which would be awful if it wasn't possible to plunge back into the steaming hot water immediately afterwards.

Because Ter had been so ill in Latacunga, we had passed a few quiet, beer-free nights recovering. On Saturday, he was ready to hit the town in a big way, having regained his appetite for just about everything. Puzzlingly, all the bars and some of the restaurants were shut. When we found our way into one restaurant that looked half way to lively, we were told that the beer was finished. Horrified, and cursing Equadorian inefficiency, we left.

At our next stop, the restaurant proprietor actually bothered to explain to us that because it was election weekend, the sale of liquor was prohibited. This is probably a good thing, because the locals will need all their wits about them to choose between the SIXTY NINE presidential candidates. Ecuadorian politics are a mess. They've had ten presidents in the last eight years, with three in rapid succession on one particularly notable day. It seems that being elected president here means trying to make yourself as rich as possible quickly before you get discovered being corrupt and ousted.

This aside, I do think that there should be some kind of Dubai-style "get out of abstinence free" gringo card. The nice restaurant owner sold us beer in coffee mugs that he filled behind the counter, though, but even so the night was a bit of a no-starter and fizzled out by ten o'clock.

To make up for it, we went out on Tuesday night. I was attired, rather awfully, in a horizontal pink striped vest with a built-in bra and a pair of new woven pants with vertical pink stripes, which I had bought to replace the hiking pants I had given to the missionaries in The Philippines when I believed that it wasn't possible that I would ever be cold again. Everything else was in the wash.

We ended up at a bar that was owned by the people who took us river rafting earlier that day, and were given free shooters as a result. The place was crawling with well-manicured American tourists on package tours who looked at me like I had crawled out from under a rock. I suddenly realised that to them, I was that badly dressed, unwashed, tatty-haired hippie skank that you see when you're travelling. I felt very good about myself.

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