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The poshest place in Ecuador

One of the best things about taking buses across strange countries is the way the scenery can change dramatically in a way that's both sudden and gradual. As you're climbing and climbing from the coast to the Sierra, the roadside mountains keep a more-or-less constant shape, and foil the grey sky in brilliant hues of green. But whereas you begin the ascent amidst jungle vegetation and enormous, striking flowers, you all at once find yourself taking in the altogether different vista of lush grass on fertile volcanic slopes, dotted with lakes and grazing livestock. Hurtling, cliffside, past recent rockslides and up, up into a sea of creamy clouds, pierced at the horizon by jagged, jet-black peaks and once the cumulus parts the countryside is all Scotland meets Middle Earth, in the spellbinding Cajas National Park.

This took some of the edge of the fact that it was pissing rain all the way to Cuenca, a city renowned for the beauty of its architecture, its university-city vibe and for being a bit posh. The place is reminiscent of Aix-en-Provence and is full of shoe-shops and places to buy gold, and admittedly rather pretty. Following the Lonely Planet's lead (only slightly better than throwing a wet cat at a silk sheet and mapping the claw-holes to a child's drawing of Ecuador) we pitched up at the Hostel de la Monasteria, apparently a six-floor palace of splendour with jaw-dropping views of the down. A slight misprint, as it's actually a sixth-floor place to spend your cash, with jaw-dropping prices (well, a couple of bucks above the norm, and affordable in a dorm), and the lift doesn't work, or look like it ever has. It was Sunday, and as such everything was closed. Because they're all posh, you see, the restaurants don't need to open on Sundays, a day when no shops selling food are on hand to relieve the hunger pangs. One "Chinese" restaurant (call it Chan's and throw up a few spangly gold banners, a rice-paper painting of a pagoda and order MSG by the hundredweight) was selling something approaching food, and so we were able to pass the evening without dying (phew!), but nonetheless underwhelmed by the gold-shops and drizzle.

On Monday, we went to see the Inca ruins, which took all of thirteen minutes, including the walk there and back. It's two half-destroyed stone walls and a plaque, so you might as well give it a miss if you're in the area, unless you feel like a short walk after dinner. I wonder if in some hundreds of years the half-destroyed stone walls of Grozny and Mogadishu will pique as much interest among archaeology fans.

The market was a much more interesting affair. Call me a capitalist pig, but I just get more satisfaction from the sights, sounds and smells of a living, breathing entity like a food market than from a small, insignificant (to me, I'm sure it was significant to the pre-Columbian goldmonger or shoe-salesman who lived there) pile of stones. You'll probably see me wandering nonplussed about Machu Picchu looking for a Tesco. I tasted possibly the weirdest fruit so far, a metre-long, flat green thing, almost like a giant pea-pod, which, when opened, is full of individually sectioned pieces of sweet candy-floss encasing a shiny black marble. Its name, as do the names of most fruits here, begins with 'Gua' and ends in '-ya', if that's any help. I couldn't say if it was good or not, as it was such a monumentally weird thing to eat that I'd need to try it again to really appreciate the taste. Mad, Ted. Inside, the almuerzos were cheap, if slightly nauseating - a group of woman sat sucking chickens' feet from a bowl, while a child stirred his plate of grey tripe with little enthusiasm - although the 70 cent price-tag was appealing to the tightfist inside. I instead splashed out two whole dollars for a couple of slices cut from the rear of a whole roast pig, far from the grim death-rictus of its charred head, with onions and a few scoops of mote, soggy giant popcorn whose only purpose is to fill the plate, and perhaps the stomach, if you can force it down. The pork was good, though. The fish on sale looked hella nice, so we bought a half kilo for two bucks and then another quarter kilo for the hell of it.

There was a very funny/cute incident on the way back up town. Carole wanted to buy a postcard, to finally use up that precious $2.15 stamp and, amazingly for a town of Cuenca's stature, none were to be found. I jokingly suggested that she ask a policeman who was furiously directing traffic at a busy mid-town intersection, in a manner not dissimilar to a pre-Grease John Travolta. Taking me up on it, she wandered over and asked him if he could direct her to the post-office or somewhere to get a card. Abandoning his post and the pell-mell of drivers to their automobilistic fates, he ushered her over to the footpath and took out his mobile to call base to ask for directions to the post office. Instructions duly noted, he explained in detail how to get there, and all but led her by the hand (it was two streets away, to slightly discredit our windmill-handed hero and his knowledge of the city). Nice guy.

Back at the ranch, after an unescorted assault on climb base six, we happen upon our roommates mid-plot. There's going to be an international cook-out later, and anyone who can bring grub to the game is in. With our fish, yucca and plantains, we're good for a main course. We spent several hours, seven cooks, whipping up a chocolate cake, cornbread, linguini marinara, arepas (kind of corn pancakes filled with cheese), sea-bass in lime and guacamole, then about twenty minutes demolishing it, and the rest of the night talking about various plans for Peru. Our one poor non-cook spent almost an hour washing up the whole sorry mess, but in good spirit he didn't complain. We may bump into at least one of the party at some stage in the next weeks, either hurtling down the dunes of Huacachina on a sandboard or plodding through the mists of Cuzco. Que sera sera.

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