EL MEDIO DE LA NADA

Despite the fact only 3 out of 30 passengers on our severely worn and crammed little rural bus doesn’t have brown skin and black hair, there’s an impressive amount of diversity bumping up the dirt road leading into the Paramo, the high-elevation grass lands, of Ecuador’s Cajas National Park. There are farmers headed to markets, carrying battered nylon sacks full of exotic (to me) fruits. There’s a gaggle of 10-year-olds in matching blue and white uniforms riding to school. Next to me sits an indigenous woman with her requisite felt hat and thick double braids of hair. Behind me and across the aisle sit two fishermen carrying disassembled rods, rubber boots on their feet. And curiously, a young woman dressed for a white-collar day at the office, who gets off the bus in a dusty little pueblo that doesn’t even have an office. The foreign, white-skinned people consist of my partner Mary, a German named Volker, and me. We are riding up into the mountains northwest of the city of Cuenca, only to immediately ride back down again. But instead of catching another bus, our long descent will be on our rented mountain bikes, which are strapped to the roof of our crowded dilapidated diesel deathtrap.

Santiago, our young local guide, has us gringos get off in what looks like the Middle of Nowhere, El Medio de la Nada. We get help unloading the bikes off the roof, and the bus leaves the four of us behind in a cloud of dust, hanging in the noticeably thin air. We are at 3,800 meters above sea level, and our first stretch of very mild uphill riding leaves our lungs aching for more oxygen. Soon, however, we’re speeding downhill, through the Paramo, which is dotted with small, clear lakes—the destinations of the rubber-booted anglers on the bus. The road we ride is a little dirt lane winding through an open landscape. There is a power line and a few cattle to be seen, but I feel a long way off from what can loosely be called civilization. The air is clear, mildly warm, and rapidly increasing in oxygen content. My mind, like the landscape, is free of clutter.

After Santiago has a minor collision with an enormous black bull, we leave the dirt road for a short stretch of singletrack, which leads us to 3 small thermal pools next to the rock-strewn Rio Yanuncay. We strip and soak in the warmest pool for maybe an hour, taking in the mountain scenery. Volker, who strongly resembles a young Arnold Schwarzenegger not only physically but accent-wise as well, braves the frigid river, but Mary and I relish finding the warmest spot in the pool. We almost don’t want to continue riding, but of course we do.

Santiago and I ride quicker than Mary and the Arnold doppelganger, so we often stop for a minute or two so the others can catch up. During one of our stops he asks if we all want to tackle the difficult singletrack ahead, or just go on the easy part. I say I’m interested in both, not knowing how difficult the difficult part will be. It turns out that Santiago, a champion downhill competitor, ends up carrying or pushing his bike almost as much as the rest of us. It’s a poor choice of route, but really, is doesn’t matter. We all have a great time, because our surroundings are beautiful and the weather is pleasant. Not even road rash, (Volker) a sore knee, (Mary) flying over the handlebars, (Santiago) or a battered crotch (me) dampens our spirits. We carry our bikes over boulders and slippery slop. We negotiate barbed wire fences and brave intimidating, free-roaming dogs. After many hours of back road and trail adventure, we roll back to Cuenca. We’re greeted with thick traffic and diesel fumes. This last stretch of our journey, a few kilometers through the city back to the guide agency office, is surely the most dangerous. Loose gravel on the roads and feral mutts definitely pose a threat to the cyclist, but they are nothing compared to humans behind the wheel of cars and trucks, especially in a big city in a place like Ecuador, where safety is rarely a big concern. This is a country without fire escapes, pollution control, or even traffic lights where they’re needed. In other words, you can’t count on the system to get you through the day—you have to be resourceful. So at a busy intersection without a traffic light, how does a group of cyclists get across? Take charge, damnit! Volker just walks into the traffic, puts his hand out and stops the cars. None of us can stop laughing as we pedal through.

--Attila