Climbing The Equator

by Neville Shulman

  I set my alarm and pull my sleeping bag tighter, and before I know it I hear the insistent beeping next to my head signalling a new day. I quickly switch it off to avoid disturbing anyone. I can also hear some rushing noises and it takes a while before I realise it’s the sound of rain on the roof. It appears quite light and I hope will not be too much of a hindrance but it means I’ll have to put on my waterproofs from the outset. Soon further alarms go off and everyone starts dressing by torchlight and packing, ready for their individual climbs. Marcos and the guides step outside to check the weather situation and are gone for a while. I drink some tea, start on my packed meal, and wish everyone good luck. I receive their good wishes in several languages in return. I put the items I’m not taking with me on the climb into a sack provided by the hut manager, to collect on the way down. Then Marcos comes back in and takes me to one side.

  ‘The weather’s really bad, it’s sleeting down hard and could get worse. Are you sure you still want to go? Perhaps we should wait an hour and see if it improves. It’s going to be a difficult climb in these conditions and may become quite dangerous. But it’s up to you.’

  I immediately get a queasy feeling in my stomach and almost want to shout out, ‘No!’ But my determination not to give up prevents me and I reply quietly,

  ‘I think we should try it and see how it goes. If it becomes impossible we’ll have to give up and return.’

  Marcos nods, as if he’d expected my answer. He tells me to get ready to leave, and that we will rope up together inside the hut, whilst our fingers can still fasten the carabiners. The others confer with their guides and it seems two will try for Norte but the others, including the climber for Iliniza Sur, are going to wait and see if it eases off and the weather improves. I wish them good luck again in whatever they decide and step outside the hut. Immediately I want to step back inside. Marcos said it was sleeting hard but this is torrential. I can’t see anything through it. But I’m not going to give up at the outset.

  ‘Let’s go.’ Perhaps they were my words or perhaps I only thought them, perhaps they were from Marcos. Now it is the mountain’s turn to speak.

  We are starting out from the Refuge before daylight but even if it was light it wouldn’t make any difference in this weather. There’s just no visibility. ‘Take it real slow.’ These were his only words of instruction but I was grateful to receive them. Marcos is just one step ahead of me and I am almost shuffling forward as I edge behind him. I feel weighed down by my backpack and my waterproofs are soaked within seconds, with the water cascading off them. We are making very slow progress and I don’t see how we will have any chance of climbing all the way to the summit. It’s so bad that in a strange way the climbing isn’t a problem and we get into some kind of steady rhythm which allows us to move gradually upwards. As planned we are heading up to the saddle between the two mountains and are now on a steep moraine, which is very slippery yet manageable at our slow pace.

  The climbing is slow and laborious and after about an hour, although I can’t risk trying to get to my watch to check, we reach a terrace and Marcos motions me to stop. He huddles into me and shouts into my right ear – although it sounds more like a whisper:

  ‘OK?’ I nod, although I’m not sure if that’s right. ‘Do you want to turn back?’ I shake my head although again I’m not sure if that’s the right answer. ‘Drink something and we’ll go on.’

  I do as I’m told, although the procedure is more tiring than the benefit, but I know he’s right and I must keep drinking as I ascend.

  ‘This is the Hourglass Pass.’ Marcos waves his arm around and I nod again although I can’t see anything that looks like an hourglass.

  ‘We’re doing well.’

  You could have fooled me but if he says so, then it must be. I drink some more and can see some large rocks ahead. I wonder what they are and then realise that the fact I can see them means the weather’s improved. Indeed it’s almost stopped sleeting and snowing, although it’s still raining but not as hard. I point upwards to Marcos but he doesn’t seem to understand and takes it as a sign to continue so I hastily stuff the bottle inside and start after him as the rope yanks me forward. We are below some large rock outcrops and the way up is not apparent. It appears to be very steep. We are in a broad couloir that according to Marcos’ shouts is called La Rampa, and it’s a tiring struggle to the top. We pause for a breather and then head to the left to climb through a series of snowfields into which my boots sink deeper and deeper. The effort to extract them each time is so tiring that my movements are getting slower and slower. It feels as if we’ve been climbing for hours, and perhaps we have. I am more than dog tired and would love to sit down in the snow, but know that would be fatal.

  We are now traversing through a huge crevasse and the snow is ramped around us not looking too stable. I stick close to Marcos and am very glad when we leave it behind. The weather is getting bad again – it’s sleeting harder and visibility is again dropping all the time. The climbing is not proving at all easy – that’s probably a major understatement – but we are taking it slowly and I am determined to get through it, or rather up and over it. There is another very lengthy, steep ice wall to overcome, and at one stage I slip backwards but quickly jam in my ice axe to prevent myself sliding too far. Marcos holds the rope steady until I’ve righted myself but if we weren’t roped I might have easily slid down a considerable way and doubt I would have had the energy to climb back up. I’m grateful for those huge arms of his, which took my weight when my feet left the rocks and there was nothing but air supporting me for a few terrible moments. Finally we are able to leave that section, climbing over to the left, and then we cross through an area of crevasses full of nasty surprises. It’s the ones you don’t see rather than the ones you do which create the problems.

  There’s a further rock band to overcome but Marcos tells me we are nearly there. Once we have clambered over that we need to climb across to the right and, on reaching a long rock ridge, head left to reach Ambato Peak. We’re still not there however and it seems that Marcos had meant the dreaded mountaineer’s version of the word ‘nearly’. We follow the ridge along from Ambato, going around ‘El Hongo’ (the mushroom) but don’t stop to eat and soon Maximum Peak is in front of us, all ready for the climbing. Marcos graciously allows me to lead this final stretch and I feel I manage it well, as the summit is urging me on. Finally we reach it. The summit of Iliniza Sur. The weather’s still bad which means that we have little time to enjoy the lack of a view before we must descend. In the words of the Lakota wise man, known as Lame Deer, ‘What you see with your eyes closed is what really counts.’ My eyes are not closed although outwardly I can see very little. Inside, however, I can sense a great deal, and lock in some precious moments.

  Going down is a piece of cake – that’s if you like your cake broken into bits with each bit squashed all over. Only kidding of course, but the way down is potentially very treacherous and there’s need to take extreme care if we want to arrive in one piece and walking rather than crawling. The wind continues to be very fierce and all the time the snow dances aggressively around me. I would easily lose any sense of direction if Marcos wasn’t there to guide me. We reach the Refuge, which is steeped with snow banking up to the walls and door, and the hut looks abandoned. Inside it’s practically the same scene as when we left all those hours before. No one made it outside for more than a few metres before being forced to return. Marcos tells them that we made it and how it was, and they generously crowd around to congratulate us both on our achievement, although I know I owe it mostly to him. They tell us they have all decided to remain another night in the Refuge, and I hope that the weather improves tomorrow so they can try again.

  The thought of another night in the hut is not in any way appealing and it makes me even more pleased with my own struggles on the mountain, because I am in a position to leave now. After trying to warm myself up with a few cups of tea which only partly work, we pack up, say our
final farewells and set out to retrace our steps down to La Virgen. I only hope the jeep is still there and wonder whether the cows have commandeered it for shelter. The way down is no joy, even with the successful ascent fresh in my memory to spur me on. By the time we reach terra firma and the sanctuary of the jeep, which actually has one cow slumped across the right front wheel, I feel more like a zombie than a mountaineer. Possibly that’s why the rock band called themselves the Grateful Dead – perhaps they were climbers in another life.

  Marcos, after all this ‘excitement’, thinks I should take a short break from the mountains and suggests I see more of the main cities of Ecuador. He recommends the port city of Guayaquil, beautiful Cuenca and Quito. Sounds good to me, and I’m certainly in need of time for reflection. Marcos Aurelius, I salute you.

  CHAPTER 7

  A TALE OF FOUR CITIES AND A MOUNTAIN

  My journey to Ecuador starts out from one historic city, London, and during my expedition I will travel through three great Ecuadorian cities, Quito, Guayaquil and Cuenca. Many scientists, writers, historians and philosophers have visited these cities and have found the architectural, historical and scientific treasures in each of enormous interest and importance. I am certainly very keen to experience and gain something from them as well.

  Officially the start of my expedition occurs when I travel by boat east along the River Thames from Westminster Bridge, passing some of the great sights of London, including the London Eye, St Paul’s Cathedral, and the Tower of London, until an hour later I arrive at the Greenwich Docks. After disembarking, looking rather incongruous in my mountain gear, I can’t resist the urge to board the famous and exquisitely designed three-masted sailing ship, the Cutty Sark, built as a tea clipper and moored at Greenwich in a dry dock next to the Thames. The Cutty Sark was built in Scotland in 1869 and was able to out-run all other sailing ships of that period. It’s still kept in fighting condition, featuring many nautical treasures, including some excellent ship figureheads and is open to the public, even to mountaineers.

  I then trek my way slowly through Greenwich Park and up its small central hill to reach the Royal Observatory, originally built by Sir Christopher Wren in 1675. From here, I am able to achieve my first expedition goal and stand at 0-0-0 longitude, then astride the Prime Meridian Line; one foot in the Western Hemisphere, the other in the Eastern Hemisphere. This Prime Meridian Line in the Royal Observatory Courtyard is now known to be slightly inaccurately sited and the true Line is actually a few metres away next to the imposing statue of General Wolfe, presented by the people of Canada in 1930. My travels in Ecuador will lead me eventually to the Centre of the World, to reach 0-0-0 latitude where I intend to straddle the Equator Line, with one foot then in the Southern Hemisphere and the other in the Northern Hemisphere. There are several rooms in the Observatory full of clocks, chronometers, compasses, astrolabes, sextants and other measuring instruments used on land and sea. In homage to those who created these ingenious measuring instruments housed in the Observatory, I wait till it is exactly 12 noon before departing Greenwich for the South Americas, where the time is 7 am. It allows me some special moments for inner reflection and tranquility before commencing my travels. God speed.

  Amongst the major influences on my life are two men with very similar names, both of whom lived in England within the same century. One is the social commentator and writer Charles Dickens (1812–1870) and the other the naturalist and writer Charles Darwin (1809–1882). I will later have cause to say more about Charles Darwin and his travels to the Galapagos Islands, but now here I’m reminded of Charles Dickens who wrote passionately about the evils of poverty and social injustice and the need always to battle on against the odds.

  One of my favourite Dickens novels, A Tale of Two Cities (first published in 1859) is set between London and Paris, at the time of the French Revolution. My expedition is also a story of several cities and the ways in which they connect. The memorable opening line of his wonderful story is one which immediately draws us in: ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.’ These words have been used in plays, musicals and films, and express the inner conflicts and thoughts we all experience in whatever we attempt to achieve. Sometimes facing great difficulties on a powerful mountain, whether climbing up or down, that opening line has often come to my mind and I’m sure many mountaineers have also expressed similar sentiments, as they too have struggled against the raw elements.

  Within Ecuador, the three most important cities are undoubtedly the political capital, Quito, Guayquil the major commercial port, and Cuenca the southern stronghold. Apart from the massive country of Brazil (30 times larger than Ecuador), which would naturally be expected to have more than one major city, Ecuador is the only other South American country to have two equally important cities, Quito and Guayaquil. The intense rivalry between these two cities has continued unabated for centuries and at times has almost led to open warfare. Cuenca is a much smaller city and doesn’t try to compete in size but only in providing a very special quality of life, and in that it certainly succeeds. Cuenca is a place where the old adage, size doesn’t matter, is never more true.

  Cuenca is actually Ecuador’s third largest city, and because it is probably the most beautiful has been named a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It is in the valley of Guapondelig flanked by mountains, and is surrounded by four rivers, the Tarqui, the Yanuncay, the Tomebamba and the Machangara. The city was founded in 1577 and is full of quaint cobblestone streets, pristine, whitewashed haciendas and relaxing plazas. It is the cultural centre of Ecuador and many of the country’s writers and artists continue to live there.

  I have been recommended by a theatre friend from Santiago, capital of Chile, to visit Fernando’s bar near the cathedral and make that my first call. I’m in luck. Fernando’s is no hideaway and his welcoming bear-like embrace makes my bones rattle. He wants to know all about me and how it is on the mountains and why ‘a crazy Englishman travels all this way just to climb a few rocks’. Fernando has never climbed anything in his life, unless he has to, ‘other than the stairs of my casa’ and believes in expending as little energy as possible. His voluptuous stomach bears testimony to that belief but because he towers over me, with a huge frame, somehow it all fits well together. It is already after breakfast but he insists we sit down and eat together and summons his favourite waitress Lola to serve us several enormous dishes, until my stomach seems to be bursting. Coupling that with mucho vino means that my planned sightseeing today goes quickly onto the back burner and I become Fernando’s guest to stay above the bar for that night. I enjoy several larger meals with him and some other guests over the rest of the day and although he doesn’t have the energy to come along, he makes Lola take me the next morning to see some city sights.

  The Cathedral (La Catedral Nueva) is rather special and its sky-blue domes dominate the city. Lola takes me inside to look at the exquisite stained glass windows and gold leaf altar, and she suggests we light candles ‘to atone for our sins’. Her English is strangely accented, and it sounds more like ‘scenes’ – perhaps that is what she really means. In any case, she lights an extra large candle but I don’t ask why.

  She tells me the original cathedral was destroyed by fire and this one is only just over one hundred years old. To make up for that she also takes me to the Convent of La Concepcion dating from 1599 where there’s a special room full of nineteenth-century dolls and toys. There’s usually an entrance fee but a wink from Lola to the young guy in charge got us easily waved through. She says that the most colourful of the paso del niño (passing of the child) festivals takes place in Cuenca at Christmas time and it’s great fun. The figure of Jesus, represented by a small antique figurine, is passed from one family to another and the person who ends up holding the figurine is appointed prioste, becoming the person responsible for organising the festival at that time.

  Ecuador is a predominantly Catholic country (some put the percentage as high as 95 per cent) but there are st
ill connections going back to the past and traditional beliefs in other gods and deities. There remains amongst the indigenous population, as well as amongst many others, the acceptance of the powers of the animal kingdom and the powerful spirit of the nature found within this country that is filled with such a rich diversity.

  It is a country full of wonderful churches and ecclesiastical buildings and indeed Simon Bolivar initially called Quito ‘the Monastery’. There are colourful and exciting celebrations of all the main religious festivals, and many others that possibly are pure inventions, created just for the fun of the event. Ecuadorians love a sense of occasion and the opportunity to dress up, so any excuse for a party is always seized upon. There are many shrines throughout the country for pilgrims to worship, and they will journey from distant parts just to participate in a special ceremony.

  All Saints Day (also known as All Souls Day) is when those who have had a death in the family can receive visitors who wish to express their sympathy. The family traditionally opens their doors to anyone and offers a meal of the deceased’s favourite food, with the visitors saying, ‘Angeles somos, pan queromos’ – ‘We are angels and we want bread’. The guests are then supposed to drink three glasses of the deceased’s favourite wine (spirits might be considered inappropriate) and take a bag of bread with them when they leave. I wonder if the visitors decide to pay their respects to more than one family, and drink three glasses of wine in each home, there is the likelihood that they may soon forget where they are going and even who they are and may end up saying, ‘Diablos somos, vino queromos’!