Cloud Road E-Book

John Harrison

• Herausgeber: Parthian Books
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 575

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

In every atlas there is a country missing from the maps of South America: the Andean nation. For five months John Harrison journeys through this secret country, walking alone into remote villages where he is the first gringo the inhabitants have ever seen, and where life continues as if Columbus had never sailed. He lives at over 10,000 feet for most of the trip, following the great road of the Incas: the Camino Real, or Royal Road. Hand built over 500 years ago, it crosses the most difficult and dangerous mountains in all the Americas, diving into sweltering canyons and soaring up into the snows. 1500 miles, half of it on foot, takes him from the Equator to Cuzco and the most magical city of all: Machu Picchu. He is attacked, gets lost and is trapped by floods, but only when he goes home does he lose what he wants most.

Leseprobe

Cloud Road

A JOURNEY THROUGH THE INCA HEARTLAND

John Harrison

‘Cuzco will be the head and defence of my kingdom to one end, and Quito at the other.’

Inca Wayna Capac 

To both Tom Harrisons, father and grandfather,

for

love of learning and love of travel 

Contents

Title PageEpigraphDedication1. Walking the Forgotten Country: The Equator to Ingapirca2. To Kill a King: Ingapirca to Cajamarca 3. The Land of the Lost: Cajamarca to Cuzco4. Sacred Valley: Cuzco to PiscoFurther InformationFurther travel writing by John HarrisonAbout the AuthorCopyright

1. Walking the Forgotten Country: The Equator to Ingapirca

4:03 a.m.

I awake in pitch blackness, a knot of tension in my solar plexus. Without looking, I know the time: 4:03 a.m. I have woken sweating at this same hour every morning for six weeks. The dream varies. Sometimes the knife slits through the tent’s thin fabric. My arms are trapped inside the sleeping bag. Before I can free them, the blade is at my neck. The second cut opens my throat and senseless whispers come from my new mouth. Cold air flows in through the wound, followed by a pool of blackness. So this is death, the undiscovered country. Other times I realise, with that hideous certainty of dreams, that I don’t have enough water to get me back to the last stream. If the crest ahead of me does not lead down to a river, I will die. The crest comes; a weary plain opens up in front of me. The dust smells of bone meal, and gnaws at the kerbstones of an ancient road whose edges converge on the empty horizon.

The joy of waking from nightmares is that in seconds you shake off the darkness, realising these foolish fears have no power to hurt you. However, I know all this and worse is possible, and in some areas, likely. I stagger to the bathroom, coughing. My chest is rigid with tension. I am afraid of the journey I have planned for myself. I cough until I vomit: it is bright red with the wine I drink to try to sleep through these dreams. Back in bed, wide awake, I worry about money, navigation, robbery, injury and illness. In the country regions, human sacrifice is still practised. For preference, they choose the young, the beautiful, the most perfect; I may yet be safe. Dawn brings a sliver of light at the curtain’s edge. With anemone fingertips I put feelers out into the dark. There is another creature, here, at my side, breath coming and going, small snuffles in her nose, a wisp of fine hair tickling my face. Elaine is a pool of warmth. When I touch the smooth skin of her shoulder, her breathing hesitates, resumes its rhythm, familiar as habit. My closing eyelids brush her back. In such love, we come and go.

Quito Drowning

When I got off the plane in Ecuador I was still two miles above sea level. Lungs panicked, gasping for oxygen that wasn’t there. The taxi pulled out into Quito’s thinning night traffic; at nine, the capital was already shutting down. The weak headlights gave sudden glimpses of streets awash, and the driver swerved round sheets of ribbed sand. He gave me a nervous grin, one gold tooth glinting. ‘Hey, Gringo, you speak good Spanish! Where did you learn it?’

‘At home in Wales.’

‘Why, do they speak Spanish there too?’

‘No, I learned because I wanted to come here.’ Deluges smashed down from the encircling hills, over the roads and into the squares, forming pools, rounding street corners in choppy eddies. The young conquistador historian Cieza de León looked down on Quito, and noted that on such a small plain it would be hard for the city to grow. He was right. To squeeze in the 1.4 million people who now live here, shanties have been thrown up on the hills around the city. After prolonged heavy rain those slopes are unstable, and this week, the afternoon thunderstorms had been pitiless. The vehicles which hadn’t drowned spewed skirts of filthy spray over the pavements. Side roads were caked with foot-high clay ridges autographed by truck tyres. Away left were the skyscrapers of the new Quito; offices and high-rise apartments springing up from well-lit streets. We sped below the twin spires of the nineteenth-century cathedral, a mound of soulless stone, and entered the half-lit narrow streets of the old town. I checked into the Hotel Viena International, two blocks below the main square. Its handsome, three-storey, nineteenth-century courtyard sported a stone fountain topped by a blue plastic Virgin. In the dark bathroom, I glared balefully at myself in the mirror to examine my state of mind. The old glass warped my face into a Francis Bacon portrait. I took myself to bed with a book.

To save weight, I could only afford one book for leisure reading. It might have to last me months. I had decided on Don Quixote. One opening passage was a sermon. ‘Reader, you must know that when our gentleman had nothing to do, (which was most of the year), he passed his time in reading books of knight-errantry; which he did with such application and delight that in the end he abandoned his usual country sports, and even the care of his estates; he grew so strangely besotted with those amusements that he sold many acres of land to purchase books of that kind.’ Like me. Don Quixote is usually portrayed as an old man, who, in senile dementia, leaves his home and steps into the world of his delusions, and builds a fantasy space in which to survive. I discovered in the first few pages that the old fool was close to fifty: same as me.

Next morning, the television anchor man catalogued the destruction: twelve people had been killed in the city, mostly by mudslides, £4 million of damage to schools, 500 miles of highway unusable, slowing distribution of the 53,000 food parcels they had prepared. River levels were four feet above the previous record levels. There were grainy colour pictures of homeless people linking arms across brown streams running down filthy earth-slips, slithering obscenely where, ten minutes before, their houses had stood. A man was being hauled out of a swollen river. A paramedic pushed a paperclip up his nose until he vomited up filthy water.

Flooded backyards bred billions of mosquitoes. Quito is too high for malarial species, but these can carry dengue fever, which causes fever and agonising pains in the muscles and joints. There are no drugs to protect against it, and none to cure. Mortality among ill-nourished children, like those of Quito, is high.

From time to time, trucks carrying firemen and soldiers into the hills passed in a blur of sirens and red lights. The men’s eye-sockets were dark circles of exhaustion: the whites showed all round the iris, globes of fear. They were trained to face flames and bullets, not burial alive: the anoxic glory of having their mouths stoppered by red clay.

I walked towards Santo Domingo Square along Flores Street, where crumbling colonial houses were opening their tall, heavy doors to reveal small sewing and tailoring businesses. Men settled tinny typewriters on spindly tables, and waited for customers who needed a letter written or a bill typed. In one door, a young spiv sat on the step. A coarse-featured woman in a gaudy maroon mini-dress stood over him eating sponge cake from a fold of greaseproof paper. The man nodded at me, ‘What about him?’ She took two steps towards me, nearly losing a stiletto, struck a pose in front of me and yelled ‘Fwocky, fwocky!’, spraying me with cake crumbs. I stepped round her; she shrugged, hitched up her dress and pissed in the gutter.

Things hadn’t changed. In 1861, the young Friedrich Hassaurek arrived as US Ambassador to Ecuador, a reward for his campaigning for the newly elected President Abraham Lincoln. Judging by his memoir, Four Years Among the Ecuadorians, he seems to have had his handkerchief to his nose the whole time: ‘Men, women and children, of all ages and colors, may be seen in the middle of the street in broad daylight, making privies of the most public thoroughfares; and while thus engaged, they will stare into the faces of passers-by with a shamelessness that beggars description.’ Nor was he keen on the carnival week habit of dunking passing strangers in the sewers.

That night, the first explosion terrified me. I groped for my alarm clock: 04:03. Another huge bang shattered the silence. Was it heavy firearms or explosives? A volley shook the city and echoed round the empty streets. It went on for nearly twenty minutes, sometimes creeping nearer, sometimes retreating, but always coming up the hill from the poor district of La Marín. Just before dawn, around six o’clock, the street below my window blared into life. With car horns, shouts, laughter and catcalls, the market traders began to set up in the street. I went out to look for breakfast. The stalls were homemade from poles and plastic sheets, and stored in nearby lock-ups. A wiry old man, with three yards of rope he could wrap round anything, helped ferry the stalls and the stock to their pitches for fifty cents a time. He could carry fruit boxes stacked six high, with the rope looped across the front of his shaven head: a stagger-legged samurai.

Beggars arrived for business just as promptly. One man laid a mat and a megaphone on the pedestrian side street. He undid his belt and trousers, exposed his backside, and lay face down. His buttocks were covered in syphilis sores, red-raw, eating holes in his flesh. He picked up the megaphone and described his life of sin, frequenting prostitutes, neglecting his family for the sins of adultery and fornication. He called on St George, the patron saint of syphilitics, to witness how God had punished him for his evil. He did very well. It was a story people wanted to hear.

Returning to the hotel, I asked the receptionist about the early morning gunfire. She looked puzzled. ‘At 4 a.m.,’ I prompted. ‘Oh,’ she smiled, ‘you mean the fireworks, it is the feast of the Virgen Dolorosa on Saturday. All week the faithful go to Novenas at four o’clock and let off fireworks. Did it wake you up?’

Genesis

My journey began in a long-ago half-hour, waiting in a queue with my father in an old-fashioned barber’s shop at the foot of precipitous Killigrew Street in Falmouth, Cornwall. It must have been one of the last times I went to the barber’s with him, before becoming a teenager made me self-conscious about being seen with my parents. The shop still had a red and white striped pole. Two white granite steps took us up from the street into the gentle crypt of their salon. A surgeon’s knife lying in a porcelain bowl full of blood would have completed the décor.

They wore white coats and stood with patient gravitas; like umpires testing the weight on their feet in the slow afternoons. They seldom spoke, and then softly, the lips scarcely parting, a gentleman’s code. It was an ordered game; we knew the rules.

I teased out a battered copy of National Geographic from the stack of week-old newspapers and opened it at a picture of a city that grew out of the very rock of the wild peak on which it perched. Machu Picchu! It looked as if the stones had been cast down from the sky with the casual genius of gods. Only later did those temporary encumbrances arrive: people. In the centre of the picture was a level lawn. To one side of the lawn stood a single tree. I put my finger to the lawn and whispered, ‘I want to be there.’

‘Next, please!’

I waited, and watched Mr Blenkinsop’s cool hands glide the clippers’ chromium antlers around the trellised creases of my father’s neck. Soft brown and grey curls fell to the green linoleum floor, like songbirds stunned by frost. The room had absorbed the restfulness of church into its mahogany fittings. The combs, razors, brushes and clippers were gleaming and ordered. A sweep of white sheet made choirboys of us all. My turn. The scissors began their crisp march across my fringe: the sand-edged sound of blade cutting hair. Straight black locks fell into the white cwm between my arms.

That night, as I lay down to sleep, and the white worm in the eye of the light bulb faded away, I breathed through a tiny gap between my pursed lips, practising survival in the thin air of the Andes, and imagined against my legs the prickle of the lawns of Machu Picchu, lost Inca city. The journey evolved in my mind.

In every atlas, there is a country missing from the maps of South America: the Andean nation. It runs from southern Colombia, through Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia, right down into Chile. The world’s longest mountain chain threads it together. The people who live there call it the Sierra. Their culture, economy and beliefs are Andean. Physiologically they are far more like other Andean groups, however distant, than their neighbours lower down the mountain. For a brief spell, an eddy in time’s river, it was unified politically; not as a nation, a people with shared origins and ambitions, but as an empire. Like an industrial conglomerate, the Inca Empire was built by growth, voluntary take-over and aggressive acquisition. Bloated by rapid expansion, brittle with internal tensions between the state and the conquered nations, it was torn apart by two royal sons fighting for the crown. When strangers appeared on its shores and blew, the house of cards fell down.

I wanted to journey through this secret country, to put my ear to the ground and hear the beat of the heart of the Andes. To experience it in the raw, I planned to walk the most remote sections and penetrate rural areas where outside influences had scarcely touched a way of life that continued as if Columbus had never sailed. There was an ancient road running along the spine of this secret country. It was the first great road of the Incas: the Camino Real, or Royal Road. It was hand-built over five hundred years ago, to cross the most difficult and dangerous mountains in all the Americas. It’s still there, sometimes little different from the days when the Inca was carried in his litter, curtains drawn, sweeping past fields where every face was pressed to the soil in veneration. Other sections are now degraded beyond recognition, sometimes buried under modern asphalt. But the line may be followed, and my eyes would see highlands little changed from the views seen by the last great native ruler, Inca Wayna Capac. He decreed, ‘Cuzco will be the head and defence of my kingdom to one end, and Quito at the other.’ I would travel 1,500 miles between his twin capitals, beginning in Quito.

Quito Shining

I spent the next days walking across the sprawling city getting used to the altitude. Flat was easy, but a few hills soon reminded me that a third of the oxygen was missing. Carrying a backpack would double the effect. When training for the trip, I had kept a secret from my doctor, but been unable to hide it from Elaine. My lower back would sometimes disassemble itself, muscles stiffening and cramping, bones pinching nerves into violent pain, like spider-threads shot out into the wind, laced with delicate venom. I hoped, with no medical evidence at all, that a Spartan life would straighten it out. However, my feet seemed tough enough, and there was no pain from the new boots I had been breaking in for two months.

I hiked to the modern centre around Amazonas Avenue to see the Vivarium, a private collection of snakes and reptiles in a corner house in a quiet residential side-street named Volcanoes Avenue. Behind the glass, snakes lay coiled and draped in torpor. Skeletons showed their slender construction: their ribs as fine as fish bones. The false coral snake grows up to six feet long and has a Latin name to match: Lampropeltis triangulum micropholis. It is striped in red and cream and white and common around Quito, and, in block capitals, HARMLESS. Unfortunately the Vivarium had no specimen of the highly venomous true coral snake for me to learn the difference. Nearby was the creature I really needed to get to know, the fer-de-lance: mottled green with darker bands on its flanks, the colour of grass in shadow. It favours cultivated fields and riverbanks. I would be passing through a lot of those. It is extremely dangerous, and, I realised, soberly contemplating its bored, lidded eye, extremely hard to see. I looked at the map which showed its long narrow range. It was a map of my route.

My spirits were not lifted by returning to the old city and touring the colonial churches. They are virtually windowless – faith is a shade-loving plant – but within them shone the wealth of the Americas. The builders commanded gold and silver by the mule-load, precious stones by the sack. Many wealthy people did not invest in business. Instead they saved and hoarded, and when they died they bequeathed their loot to the church; that is, if death granted them time to reveal where it was hidden. Even now, when colonial houses are demolished or damaged by earthquake, treasure may spill out among the rubble and dust, testaments to misers who would not trust a wife, son, daughter or lawyer, and died with their secret hidden in their dried-up hearts. The fortunes passing to the church would have embarrassed Croesus. The gold and silver which smothers the church altars is not leaf, but plate, as thick as card. The architects’ only problem was when to stop; frequently they didn’t.

In the San Francisco Monastery, the paintings were amok with gruesome sado-masochistic scenes: Franciscans were sawn in half by devils using a rather fine wooden bow-saw, demons knelt on their chests and beat them about the face with stout cudgels. In the scenes above them, dimly visible in the profounder gloom, demons pursued their individual fascinations: lashing, flaying and amateur dentistry. However much the Spanish abused the physical welfare of the Indians, they took the saving of souls very seriously. They spread the name of Christ in a way the English and French showed no interest in doing in North America, even debating what shape a native soul might be. The endless Council of Trent, 1545–63, recommended the conversion of natives and other illiterates through the visual arts. The toiling masses took their texts from the paintings on the church wall; almost all showed Jesus suffering.

In the monastery’s museum is a display of work by the old masters of Quitan woodcarving. They delivered the party line, the orthodoxy of Catholic Spain. Christ is never the teacher, the healer or the man of love; he is a piece of surgery, scourged and nailed. The last dark hours of his life are the only ones that mattered, when his love was expressed in sacrifice. In an illiterate society these bloodily insistent images bear a message, and it is not love, but guilt: he died for you, sin is within every baby, you are a sinner, and the church dispenses forgiveness. The Bible itself was dangerous; a rival source of authority for Spanish Imperial Catholicism. Priests boasted that they had never read the Bible and never would. As late as 1907, the Easter Week sermon of Bishop Holguín of Arequipa called for the prohibition of seditious work, naming Zola, Voltaire, Rousseau and the ‘Protestant’ Bible, meaning the Bible in translation.

The painting Infierno, completed in 1620 by Hernando de la Cruz, spells out the cost of sin. The unjust boil in a pot, some still wearing their crowns. A rumour-monger is in a hole with a snake. Professionally, I check to see if it is a true or false coral snake: can’t be sure, he could get away with this. The burlesque show depicting homicides looks like the night a knife-thrower took LSD. A male adulterer is suffering in the places he enjoyed his sin: in a nice touch of local colour, a monkey vomits molten lava onto his genitals. A grinning devil pours more into his mouth, using a funnel to ensure none goes to waste. Plainly he likes his work, and wants to get on.

Until recently, Santo Domingo church seemed on the edge of ruin; an emergency roof looked ready to totter and fall at the next thunderclap. Steel beams had been put across the nave and a suspended steel ceiling was in place. I edged my way by the vendors of candles, texts and icons of the saints, past the smart man hawking a luxury edition of the Bible, past a bundle of rags with a single, brown claw extended for alms. Mass was finishing. The faithful spilled out into the square, many wiping tears from their eyes.

The main square was a pleasant park flanked by the old cathedral, rambling down the hill on my left-hand side. Colonnades with small shops stood behind me and to my right. The top was commanded by the long, graceful Government Palace. The square is a great meeting place in the short evenings, somewhere to stroll and sit, for lovers to meet and sit on the rim of the fountain, for men to take a shoe-shine, read the newspaper, smoke a cigarette. Tonight the thunderclouds, which had been crackling over the surrounding hills in the late afternoon, had cleared, and a warm honey-coloured light bathed the palace’s stucco extravagances. The craftsmen who made them were called ‘silversmiths in plaster’. On the next bench to me were twin sisters, wearing denim skirts, pearl tights and salmon-coloured cardigans. They fiddled incessantly with their hair: combed straight back, with a single metal grip to hold up the fringe. Maybe thirteen years old, they were already stocky, with broad peasant hips, deep rib cages. Their heads were large, with heavy features. They were the shape of women who have had two children; and please-God-I’m-only-late. They have blinked and gone from children to miniature adults. Adolescence went missing; childhood, when was it? Above, in the tree’s white limbs, a bird sang sweetly; from the next, another responded.

One night the peace was shattered. Suddenly the square teemed with riot police and soldiers with automatic weapons at the ready. Orange tape barred people from the garden, and an armoured vehicle stood on the pavement. An old, blind lady, with a pyramid of black hair falling from her shoulders, tapped her way across the street, and met a strange lump of iron blocking her usual route home: a tank. Her white stick groped its way over the armour plate, down the side and along the caterpillar tracks with a rat-a-tat-tat. Suddenly floodlights had drowned the front of the palace in light. Perhaps I was witnessing the beginning of a revolution. I asked a sergeant what was happening. ‘They are filming an American movie!’ he said. ‘Proof of Life, a kidnap story starring Meg Ryan and Russell Crowe. We’re all extras!’

Next lunchtime San Francisco Square was again full of soldiers and military police, surrounding the ministry building next to the church. One called me over, conspiratorially: ‘Get closer, you’re a journalist, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ seemed to be the right answer, and I took out my notebook. He placed me in front of the wall of guards, with the officers. ‘Who are we waiting for?’ I asked, looking down at the waiting motorcade: two police cars, a Lincoln Continental limousine with black windows and seven Chevrolet four-wheel drives.

‘The President and Vice-President.’

In a few minutes a tall man with a grey beard but no moustache passed down the steps next to me. President Noboa was thick-waisted and moved slowly and deliberately, with a slight stoop. He wore a grey suit with a maroon tie. My overall impression was of an avuncular academic, which, in a politician, always makes me cautious. Stalin looked avuncular. Amongst other things, Dr Gustavo Noboa was actually a career academic before taking up politics; again, not necessarily good news. So was Peru’s ex-President and disgraced embezzler, Alberto Fujimori. But his quiet manner was reassuring after Ecuador’s experience when President Abdula Bucaram celebrated his 1996 election by releasing a record of himself singing ‘Jailhouse Rock’. He was nicknamed ‘The Nutter’, and after further bizarre public behaviour he was removed from office for mental incapacity, and went to jail.

Vice-President Calvites, a smaller man in a black suit, emerged with his head bowed deeply, talking to his feet while the men around him nodded continuously. He sported the President’s missing moustache, and a ruby birthmark, splashed across his right cheek.

The problems they face are profound. Ecuador had recently suffered the collapse of its currency and per capita income is less than a third of the Latin American average, while it labours under one of the heaviest debt burdens. Presidential power is weakened by the prevalence of many moderate-sized political parties, who group and re-group in shifting coalitions and alliances. With some exceptions, the economy has done badly for twenty years, often going backwards. Most children will suffer protein deficiency, which, if unrelieved for the first five years of life, will permanently destroy a quarter of the intelligence they would have enjoyed. For many of Ecuador’s citizens, each day is a struggle to find food, their bodies leached of energy by long-term under-nourishment.

The demonstration of fraternal flesh-pressing with the ordinary man and woman in the street rang hollow. Doctor Noboa’s other job is being a banana billionaire. Many of his citizens survive on $1 a day. By comparison, every cow in the European Union receives a daily subsidy of $2.25.

I entered the silent haven of a barber’s shop and stepped back thirty years. From the linoleum beneath my feet to the bevel-edge mirrors, it was a double for Blenkinsop’s in Falmouth. I picked through the old sports magazines and last week’s papers, while two men in white coats snipped away the shocks of hair around the ears, and whispered the news. When my turn came, my hair, falling as if sound was suspended, was brown and grey like my father’s nearly four decades before, when I first put my finger to the picture of Machu Picchu and wished the impossible wish.

I stood outside fingering hair clippings from my collar. It was time to hit the road. I decided, to neaten things up, that I would bus north out of the city to the equator itself, and begin my long journey south at the earth’s middle.

The Earth’s Belly

You would have thought the equator was a difficult place to lose. One hundred feet below me, the circular lawn was laid out as a giant compass with paths leading along the four cardinal points to the pyramid on which I stood. Above me was a bronze globe fifteen feet across. A plaque on the monument told me I was standing 78° 27′ 08″ west of the Greenwich Meridian, and my latitude was 0° 0.0′ 0.0″. I was on top of the monument in Ciudad del Mitad del Mundo, the City at the Centre of the World, admission 50 cents. It is not a city or even a village, but a collection of modern tourist shops and cafés, single-storey whitewash with pantile roofs the colour of pencil lead. Further away, below the sprawling car park, ice-cream coloured buses growled over the smart grey paviours of the new boulevard and up the belly of the earth, to deposit their passengers on its imaginary belt. Ecuador is only one of twelve countries on the equator, but for two reasons it has prime call on it. Firstly, it is named after the line, and, secondly, it was here that a famous and bitter argument about the shape of the earth was finally settled.

It may seem strange that some of the greatest minds of their day spat feathers over whether or not our planet is fatter round the middle or the poles, but, firstly, the answer had a vital theoretical significance, and split the scientists of two great rival nations, more or less on national lines. In the British camp was a good candidate for the title of the greatest intellect that ever lived, Isaac Newton, or rather his ghost, as he had died eight years before the expedition set sail. He argued, from his own gravitational laws, that the rotation of the earth would flatten it at the poles and fatten it at the equator. Newton had shown that the gravity of a large object, like the earth, behaves as if all its mass were located in a single point at its centre. Since gravity diminished with distance, if gravity was less at the equator, it was because it was further from the centre.

In the French camp was the cantankerous shade of Jean Dominique Cassini, a talented but conceited Italian, headhunted by Louis XIV to be head of his new Observatory in Paris. He had an impressive pedigree, having discovered four more moons orbiting Saturn, plus the gap in its rings which bears his name. Cassini argued, from measurements taken in his adopted France, that the size of a degree of arc diminished as you went south.

Egos aside, the shape of the earth was also of great practical importance. Despite improvements in maps and instruments, mariners still made lethal errors in their navigation. If the earth wasn’t round, the length of a degree would vary, getting bigger the further you were from the earth’s centre. To settle the matter, an experiment spanning the globe was devised by the French Académie des Sciences. One expedition, under the mathematician Pierre Louis Moreau de Maupertuis, would go to Lapland to measure the length of a degree in the far north. A second was sent to the equator, and, since most equatorial land was unexplored rainforest, the most practical place to conduct the survey was in highland Ecuador, then a part of the Spanish Viceroyalty of Peru. The snag was that Spain had let no foreigners enter her New World possessions for two hundred years, unless they were fighting in her armies. But political fortune was with them. The King of Spain was Philip V, put on the throne by his grandfather, who happened to be Louis XIV of France. Permission to enter Ecuador was obtained, but on condition that Spanish overseers would work alongside them. The man chosen to lead this expedition was Charles Marie de La Condamine, a 34-year-old geographer.

Arriving in Quito in 1736, they first took readings to establish the exact position of the equator, then measured a base line along it with surveying chains. It required the utmost care; every subsequent measurement would depend on the accuracy of this first one. They then began to work south, to measure the distance over the ground of three degrees of latitude, over two hundred miles. The terrain was rough and the mountain climate uncomfortable, freezing them at night and cooking them by day. The work was brutal, hauling heavy but delicate equipment up mountains, then taking precision readings from temperamental instruments. It was two years before they finished, using the church tower at the town of Cuenca as a final triangulation point. To test the accuracy of their work, they calculated the length of the final side of the last triangle, before actually measuring it, on the ground. The discrepancy was just a few feet.

The final months dragged terribly. The astronomer Godin was seldom well, another man died of fever and their doctor Senièrgues meddled in a society love-affair and was lynched. The draughtsman, Morainville, who had designed a church, was climbing the scaffolding to inspect progress when it collapsed and crushed him to death. Depressed by the toll on himself and his party, La Condamine laboured on. He faced one final task: to mark the original baseline with permanent monuments, both to record their efforts, and so that the crucial first measurement could, if necessary, be re-examined by future scientists. He decided to build two modest pyramids, one at each end. It was months before this labour was complete and he was able to carve the French fleur-de-lis on the pinnacles and, finally, the names of himself, Godin and Bouguer. Crassly, in an age when etiquette was all, he recorded neither the role of the Spanish Crown in granting permission for the work, nor the participation of the two Spanish overseers. The Spanish authorities were furious. La Condamine pompously refused to admit he was wrong. The Spanish demanded that the pyramids be pulled down altogether. A court ordered him to add the missing Spanish names and strike off the fleur-de-lis. Six years later, the Council of the Indies, Spain’s Foreign and Colonial Office, sitting in Seville, decided that this was insufficient, and ordered the pyramids destroyed. The order was despatched, but La Condamine appealed, and won. News of the reprieve arrived too late; the pyramids were already rubble.

La Condamine’s results proved the earth did indeed belly out at the equator, with a circumference around eighty-five miles greater than that around the poles. Voltaire, a champion of Newton, boasted, ‘They have flattened both the earth and the Cassinis.’

One of the demolished pyramids was re-erected in 1836, by local landowner Vicente Rocafuerte, in fields near Yaraqui. When the Alpinist Edward Whymper was here in 1880, he found one of the inscribed stones standing in a farmyard, the centre of its legend worn away, where the farmer had used it as a block to mount his horse. The pyramid at the south end of the baseline was re-erected at the order of a president of Ecuador, but was moved several hundred feet to one side so that it could be seen to better advantage. The original position is lost; all La Condamine’s efforts to preserve his work were in vain.

Nowadays, finding your location is easier: I had brought my GPS. The size of a mobile phone, it contacted satellites and confirmed that it was currently accurate to thirty-four feet. There was a slight problem. It gave my latitude as 0° 0.129′ south, nearly eight hundred feet from the equator. I looked down at a tiny Japanese woman tiptoeing along the painted yellow line like a tightrope walker, striking balletic poses and giggling. It wasn’t the equator, or even close. Why?

I showed the guides my GPS readings, and they smiled coyly at each other. There was a kind of ‘You tell him, no you’ conversation and then one of the women said, ‘It’s true, we are close to the equator but not on it. The Government was offered some land that was flat and convenient. The equator runs along a ravine and it was not possible to build on the actual equator without great expense.’

I followed my GPS north, skirting the small steep-sided ravine, and found myself in a privately run open-air museum, Museo Inti-Ñan. The name means Path of the Sun, in Quechua, the language of the Incas, which still has more speakers than any other native language. Fabián Vera, a handsome pure-blooded Indian, showed me round. They had set up a few equator games: the sink where the water doesn’t rotate, and ‘balance the egg upright’. It took me a couple of minutes but I did make it stand on end. Fabián said, ‘It is much easier on the equator because there is no Coriolis force’ (the rotational force which everywhere else makes draining water spin). I couldn’t see why this was relevant to a stationary object, but sure enough, when I got home, I couldn’t do it. Mind you, at home, I have better things to do.

Fabián led me along the path through the centre of their site. ‘This was a religious route for the local tribes even before the Incas came. It is exactly on the equator,’ he waved with good humour at the tourist village, ‘not like that. The original inhabitants built a stone cylinder here, sixty feet in diameter and twenty-six feet high to mark the true site.’ I took out my GPS and walked on through the garden and into the dusty potato patch behind it, and came out of his back gate onto a road. In the middle of the road I got a full set of noughts, accurate to within thirty-four feet. The official monument was no longer in sight. I walked another fifty feet to make sure I was in the northern hemisphere, then I turned round and began to walk south. I walked back through Ciudad del Mitad del Mundo and skipped over the yellow line. My journey had begun.

Each of the equators makes sense. Native interest in astronomy reflected the dominance of agriculture in their economy. La Condamine’s interests reflected the economic importance of navigation in his. The new pyramid is a monument to tourism, and is located where it collects the most dollars.

It was warm and sunny with a light breeze ruffling the flowers. It felt so good, after all the preparation, to actually be on the road, walking. I bought fruit from a small grocer’s, and chatted to the dumpy lady with just two long thin teeth, one at either side of her lower jaw, like an abandoned cricket match. It seemed unfair to start without a soul here knowing what I was attempting. ‘I am walking to Cuzco,’ I said. ‘I’ve just started.’

‘That’s nice,’ she said. ‘My son likes walking.’

It was just after midday and I sought out the scraps of shade. I knew the old Inca road was buried underneath modern tarmac. The road turned into dual carriageway, and I walked the tree-lined central reservation enjoying the grass underfoot, the shade and the continual flow of boxy, pugnacious trucks ferrying sand and gravel to the ever-open mouths of the cement mixers of Quito. My lungs and leg muscles were coping well, and I soared up my first long hill. Then, after two-and-a-half hours, I felt sandpaper patches tingling next to the ball of each foot. I was getting blisters. I made a painful mistake: I did not get on a bus and ride back to the hotel. I carried on, believing I was close to the city edge and could find a hotel there: wishful thinking. I must have walked the only route into Quito where you are not surrounded by cheap hotels. Eventually I limped round a corner and found the airport taxi rank. After a twenty-minute drive I booked myself back into the room I had left only that morning, a long time ago. The staff whispered and conferred: the lunatic was back.

I pulled off my boots. There was a large blister in the middle of each foot and the tops of my toes had all been cut by a seam running across the toe of the boot, and were bleeding. The heat and perspiration had softened my skin. In Wales, in winter, heat was something I could not train for. I lay on the bed cursing the socks, the boots, but most of all, myself. I read Don Quixote. He and Sancho Panza had been beaten up and were licking their wounds and rubbing their bruises. Was my project just the male menopause? Couldn’t I just have stayed at home, grown a silly ponytail and bought a motorbike? Until now I had never before been for a walk of more than four days. Don Quixote knew why: ‘One of the Devil’s greatest temptations is to put it into a man’s head that he can write and print a book, and gain both money and fame by it.’

In the morning, I went to the flower market and asked the herb sellers if there was a traditional medicine for blisters. ‘Stinging nettles,’ he said grinning, and took out a sheaf. It came complete with a butterfly; the bottom of its wings inlaid with mother-of-pearl. It flew to my shoulder. When I passed a flower stall, I put it down on the tip of a bouquet. The woman looked at me as if I had clouds of them to give away. Back in the hotel I mashed up the nettles and strapped them round my feet. It took my mind off the pain of the blisters. I punctured the most painful one and yellow pus oozed out. After that, it felt more comfortable.

I had time to kill. Most television programmes consisted of fat middle-aged men working with blondes dancing in bikinis so small you could make three from an average hotel sewing kit. I returned to fellow middle-aged fool, Don Quixote, and started to consume my single, precious, English-language book. On the second evening, I went down into La Marín, along a lane fizzing and spitting with stalls charcoal-grilling parts of animals that are normally pulped for pet food, or buried in a simple but moving ceremony. Peeking down into one pot my gaze was met by another, yellow eye, staring accusingly at me for a few seconds, before drifting out to the edge of the stew, and subsiding into the depths again.

The city was waking up after the siesta; traders hustled and huckstered. A wheelbarrow bounced with coconuts from the coast, trimmed by machete. Firewood sellers burned samples of their hardwood in little iron incense bowls, glowing red and black in the dark. A five-year-old boy was so angry at life that he was stamping both feet at once. Mother tired of the tantrum, picked him up and told him how to behave, and punctuated the lecture with insistent slaps about the head and face. I picked one of a row of bright plastic-and-vinyl cafés. Tiny children selling sweets asked permission to come in and beg the leftover knuckle joints from the plates. They slurped off the skin and chewed the gristle off the joints. The customers were courteous and helpful in putting aside what they wouldn’t eat. They themselves were only a rung or two higher on a rotten ladder.

The Avenue of the Volcanoes

It was nine days before I could risk a serious hike south, beginning with an area of town that visitors are told to stay well away from. To avoid mugging, I began at dawn, planning to walk to the edge of town, a location that receded with every day of building development.

The line of the ancient Inca road to the south runs across the front of the Government Palace, skirts the hill of El Panecillo, topped by a monstrous white Christ, and leads away over a steep ridge. At ten to six, the streets were cold and foggy; the few stragglers muffled up, wearing sullen wintry faces. The darkness was thinning as I crossed the main square and turned left past the great Jesuit Church of La Compañia, where a scatter of people spilled out of Mass, bowed forward like dark ghosts. Light was seeping into the narrow cobbled streets around El Panecillo. A mute man skipped towards me, crying out inarticulate sounds, and pointing a crooked finger back at the sky over his shoulder like a ragamuffin John the Baptist. He smiled as if he were speaking in tongues.

Higher up, a young man stopped me to ask if I needed directions, and offered me a drink of clear alcohol from an unlabelled bottle he drew from his pocket. I declined. It might have been drugged, but in any case, I make a strict point of not hitting spirits before half past six in the morning. Walking up the avenue of Bahía de Caraquez was like climbing a ski-jump, but my heavily strapped feet took it well; my legs had lost little fitness and I felt optimistic. The city came to life rapidly with the dawn; buses were suddenly everywhere. Gold flakes of light now encrusted the rotting walls.

Wherever the line of the Royal Road was known, I had marked it on my maps. Their scale, 1:25,000, was good for walking, but these copies, although the most recent, were still forty years old. They said the edge of the city was two miles away, but now it might be five, maybe more. Country women were tying donkeys to trees in the grassed central reservation and selling their milk, straight from the teat. I drank the warm, thin, frothy milk, watched dolefully by a foal with a sock over its nose to stop it suckling. At nine, I stopped for a coffee and fried eggs. I asked the owner, ‘How far is it to Chillogallo?’ – the first settlement shown to the south of Quito.

‘You’re in it,’ he said, ‘swallowed by the city.’

A sow slept in a yard beneath a churning cement mixer. Country becomes town. Outside a small workshop, I talked to Victor, a grizzled 50-year-old, paint-spraying iron stoves. He was green to the elbows. ‘How many children have you got?’ he asked me.

‘None.’

‘I have eight: five boys and three girls. That’s why I’m working and you are on holiday. With the old money, you used to be able to buy something for a hundred sucres. Now you spend four dollars and there’s not enough to eat.’

He still worked to the sound of roosters: soon traffic and radios would drown them out. The temperature was 85°F; I rested in the gutter and repaired my feet. Blank walls become the pamphlets of the dispossessed: their politics and poetry. ‘Justice is sacrificed on the altar of Capitalism’ next to ‘Tenderness is passion in repose’. After seven more miles, I reached the next settlement marked on the map, Guamaní Alto, and knew I was approaching the countryside because a man raced across the road saying, ‘Look! A fresh wolf-pelt, only thirty dollars!’ Last year Guamaní Alto was a village, now it is a suburb. When I crossed the little square, which straddled a low ridge, I could see open countryside; maize fields, pasture, towering hills and the snow-tipped mountains marching south along both sides of a huge valley. For the moment, it was the edge of Quito. Tomorrow I would enter the vale that the explorer Alexander von Humboldt christened the Avenue of the Volcanoes. My route would be lined with the richest and most destructive high volcanoes in the world.

I was unsure where I could reach by the following nightfall, since, reckless though it may sound, my maps did not always join up. It was impossible to carry original, detailed maps of a 1,500-mile journey. Instead I had photocopies of the line of march, but I had been forced to leave gaps. I could not always be sure how much land lay between them. In a few miles, I could hear the Panamerican Highway, a route running down the whole of the Americas from Prudhoe Bay, on Alaska’s north shore, to Ushuaia in south Argentina. It varies from a gravel track to what it is here: a major highway. Huge American Mack trucks rolled by, their articulated rigs as showy as calliopes. Gleaming pipes burst from the bonnet, and the horns gave off Jurassic bellows. Beneath these four lanes of tarmac was a finely engineered Inca road.

As the road slipped over a col and began to carve hairpins down into the valley, I had my first real sight of the Avenue of the Volcanoes. I took off my boots and gorged on a soft ripe mango and woody bananas, and savoured the view. A broad valley ran away, almost perfectly straight, to the south. It was fertile and well cultivated, rich greens filled the valley floor, the sides rose paler and the pattern of small fields on the huge hills was like a fine mesh net cast over the landscape. To my left, the main mountain mass commanded the col. A pall of cloud obscured the summits. Grey skirts of torrential rain were swirling through the half-light beneath. A glimmer of lightning flickered inside it. The scale was so large it was difficult to guess distances. I saw I was going to have to develop an attitude to cope with walking all day in a huge landscape: it might feel like walking on a treadmill. A path left the modern highway and plunged straight down the hill; it would save me over a mile and take me away from the traffic. As I started to descend it, my excitement grew. The even, half-trimmed stones surfacing it, and neatly engineered drains on either side, told me I had found the Camino Real. At the other end of it was Cuzco, in far-off southern Peru. My stride lengthened.

The crops around me added subtlety to the texture and colour of the land. Maize, the ancient subsistence crop, and still a rival to cereals and other grain crops, changes delicately as it grows. The young shoots are vivid green against the earth, like young wheat. The eight-foot-high mature plants have purple sheaths round the corncobs, and their tall stems give a coarse weave to the fields, like a soft tweed. Groups of eucalyptus grace the knolls and line the streams; the slender young trees feathery and delicate, the maturing trees like green candyflosses.

I saw the cloud on the mountain start to roll downhill towards me, and speeded my step. In half an hour, I was picking my way down a narrow path across the face of a low cliff, back down onto the Panamerican. In light rain, I walked into the village of Tambillo. My feet told me I had walked long enough. My back and shoulders were sore. There was a petrol station, a concrete church, fruit stalls serving the passengers on the buses and trains, but no hostel. I caught a bus the short ride south to Machachi, a tiny market town, built astride the old main road but now by-passed by the Panamerican. When the American Ambassador, Hassaurek, came here, after a long, muddy trek from the coast, he seems to have reached the end of his tether.

Two long rows of miserable huts line both sides of the main road. These inns are detestable hovels, built of earth, thatched with dried grasses, and without windows and floorings. They are notorious for their filth and vermin. In one of them, I once passed a horrible night. I was literally lacerated by fleas. Cleanliness is unknown to the inhabitants. Their chief pleasure is aguardiente. It looks down on a beautiful valley, destined by nature to be a home of plenty and comfort, but converted by man into a haunt of sloth, filth, idleness, poverty, vice and ignorance.

Little had changed. I loved it.

I asked a local boy: ‘Is the Hotel Miraville still open?’

‘Dunno.’

It was strange to have to ask, as we were both leaning on it at the time, but you couldn’t tell. I kicked the door a while, then went elsewhere. The open-air market was huge; it needed to be to contain the produce. Plants grew large to cope with altitude; tomatoes reached the size of oranges, beetroots made cannonballs. Cabbages were carried one at a time, filling a man’s arms. At every corner, tripe, fish and sausages were thrown sizzling onto rice and spooned down the mouths of workers and shoppers. The only real bar was a two-room affair with a corridor that cut down the middle and out to the back yard. At twenty past five in the afternoon the hardened drinkers were already in there. The concrete floor was painted red and scored to look like tiles; it was furnished from a skip. But there was a Rock-Ola jukebox full of old-fashioned Ecuadorian music: the ballads of Vicente Jarra and my own favourite, Julio Jaramillo – Nat King Cole, without the sugar. I put in some money. Julio Jaramillo’s light crooning voice filled the room. Customers nodded appreciatively. Two middle-aged men arrived at the next table. The barmaid looked at them very carefully. One had an ill-repaired harelip; he was quiet and wore a smart, grey, cable-stitch jersey. His friend was a burly, teak-coloured Indian, sunburned on the outside, and rum-cured on the inside. He had broad cheekbones, narrow eyes and greasy black hair swept back over his collar. A half litre of rum was 80 cents and they took two dollars’ worth to the table and drained a half litre before I finished my first beer. After a while, Harelip stood up and took steps towards me. His friend said, ‘Don’t bother him.’

But he advanced with one hand behind his back. When he was close, he whipped out the arm, offering me sweets from a bag. I took one, he bowed slightly, and returned to his seat. In five minutes he was back. He picked up my bottle, topped up my drink with great formality, kissed my hand and bowed again, before retiring. I put on more music and carried on making notes about the day, head well down. Within minutes, Harelip was standing, pointing at the dark Indian, trembling with rage, his arm shaking incoherent accusations at him. He stormed out. One drink later he was back. He marched straight up to the Indian, and before he could get up, raised something high above his head in his right hand, and smashed it down over his head. I flung my arms protectively across my face as the room exploded in a cloud of coloured fragments. It seemed as if he had filled the room with Christmas tree lights. The floor made a noise like a snare drum. I lowered my arms to look: he had smashed his bag of sweets over the man’s head.

Next day I bussed back to Tambillo to pick up the trail. I bought oranges from the stalls and a pepino, a heavy, creamy-coloured fruit with purple spatters down it. I followed the railway line uphill. Lush copses alternated with smallholdings where the flourishing plants held each other in choking embraces. It was warm and humid; you could almost hear the chlorophyll prickling in the bud, the sap unfurling the tendril and starching the leaf.

The Royal Road led away from the railway down a narrow track, where brown piglets basked in the sunny hedgerow, unbelievably pleased with life. It was a sub-tropical version of an English country lane. Sulphur-coloured butterflies pittered past me and, in the ditches, the white sleeves of arum lilies were fertilised by torpid black flies. The path on the map was supposed to continue straight ahead but the path on the ground was having none of it, and took a sharp left turn down a hard cobbled road to the Panamerican. A tumbledown house stood where the cartographic and real paths parted, and a sign outside proclaimed the unlikely: ‘Señor Escobar, Lawyer.’ The shoeless old man who came out to calm his furious dogs peered at my map. ‘This is all wrong! There is no road going straight on. The Royal Road does not run anywhere near here.’ To summarise: there had never been any other road in the world except the one which took me directly away from his property and down to the bus-stop on the Panamerican.

I snacked, lying in the hedge, mulling over the maps and the GPS. The oranges were full of pips, but the juice was deliciously sweet. The pepino looked beautiful but tasted like a bland melon. There was still no road to follow except the one to the Panamerican. I went down and continued south beneath the Mack trucks. After a mile on the tarmac, my feet began to burn. I walked on for two more hours, back into Machachi. For the last mile, I was walking on knives. I tried a new remedy for blisters; it began with the large rum I drank before I could face looking at them. One had begun to tear open. I was worried about infection but could not get antiseptic cream behind the skin and into the wound. I tipped a little of my rum in. There was a short stinging sensation and then, as it ran onto the raw skin, a huge shot of pain which seemed to electrify my whole body. I applied the rest of the rum in the more usual way, re-bandaged and went to find the jukebox bar.

I went to the spot where the bar had been the night before. It wasn’t there. Shutters prevented me looking inside. A pile of timber was stacked against the side of the passage, and breezeblocks had closed the doors to the barrooms. It echoed the chapter from Don Quixote where he arrives at an inn late at night, imagines it to be a castle and recasts the host and guests as characters in a tale of fantasy. Mayhem follows. In the morning, he groans to see how his demons have been tormenting him, for everything has changed, and is now cunningly disguised as an ordinary country inn.

I retreated next door to a café and ordered chicken and chips. One drunk came in for a take-away, staggered blindly as far as the door, fell down headlong and went to sleep. The manager took his food and put it on the passenger seat of his pick-up, picked the man up by the shoulders and dumped him behind the wheel. Two minutes later the man woke up and drove off. Foreigners were so unusual here that all three waitresses came over to serve me, and one gave me her phone number.

‘The bar next door,’ I asked, ‘has it shut down because of the fight?’

‘There’s no bar in this street.’

Fiction stalks reality, subverting, drawing you in.

Into Thin Air

It took from 1908 to 1957 to construct Ecuador’s railways. It was an expression of ambition, confidence and the cheapness of human life. Hundreds died building them: mostly native Indians, black slave-descendants and immigrant Jamaicans. As roads have improved, that investment in money and blood has slipped into decay. Trains south from Quito now only run on weekends, ferrying day-trippers to Cotopaxi National Park. The rails lack the sheen of a line in regular use, and the sleepers support extravagant orange fungi.

I was following the railway to avoid the Panamerican, whose asphalt covers this section of the Royal Road. The day began warm, and walking the line was a mixed blessing. When I had to walk on the track itself, some sleepers were trimmed square beams while others were rough logs, set at irregular intervals, which stopped me getting into any kind of stride. Bridges over the rivers were simply wooden frames holding up the line. Sometimes locals had put planks between the rails; if not I had to hop from sleeper to sleeper. As it was Sunday, and excursions were running, it would be handy to avoid being on a bridge when a train came. But there was only one line, so I wouldn’t get lost.

When the line ran through steep and very narrow cuts, the banks were thick with ferns and the air was sewn by the startled flights of giant southern thrushes. After a few hours, the track began to rise and wind, and I entered a deep airless cutting with only a couple of feet of space on either side of the track. Sweat prickled on my scalp. The only sound was birdsong. Then a different note caught my attention, and I hurried ahead and pressed myself into a niche in the earth wall of the embankment. A huge orange diesel locomotive roared round the bend and swept by inches from my face. Inside, the carriages were almost empty, just a few sedate local families with small children. But the roofs were covered with people, partying, waving, gone. Birdsong tinkled in my ears again, the engine’s clamour a memory.

The valley was narrowing, and the line turned left to make its way to a pass at 11,500 feet. I climbed a bank overlooking the ground I had walked, and ate lunch. Below me, in a small tributary valley, dark Spanish pines looked down on a verdurous flower meadow where blossoms of cream, white and yellow lolled in the long grass. The young seed heads caught the sunlight in silver beads, and black and white cows waded belly-deep through the dappled billows and glossy pools of herbage. I could hear the contented rip of their tongues through the luxuriance. A short walk brought me out above the head of that valley onto bare moorland. The ground was undulating and the occasional purple pea flowers on tendrilled stems whispered of abandoned hopes to till this high bare land. Cloud clung to the ridge, and it grew cool and windy. I made the pass in the late afternoon, and called it a day, pitching my tent out of sight in a copse of Spanish pines.

Continuing next morning, I rolled down the Pan-american for five miles, then down the lanes into the Cutuchi Valley, where a stone bridge crossed a rowdy stream. Here, among the new eucalyptus plantations, were the headwaters of the Cutuchi River, which descended to the next town: Latacunga. I rested on the parapet. Behind me to the east, a bank of clouds hid the mountains. Then suddenly I saw, high in their folds, another land, an ice kingdom in the sky. The clouds closed. But, still higher, another rent opened in my ordinary world and revealed snowy slopes that looked like icing smoothed by a knife. I was glimpsing the flanks of Mount Cotopaxi, the world’s highest active volcano. The clouds broke again to reveal the lip of the crater, slightly dished, higher at the edges. It stood like a colossal barnacle, the feathers of cloud feeding in the thin cold air. In a moment, the curtain closed. I was alone on the empty road.

Lower down, plantations of mature eucalyptus overarched the lane in magnificent avenues, like the nave of a church. Eucalyptus and Spanish pines are the only trees now cultivated in any numbers in the mountains, and they are both introduced species. The eucalyptuses, or gum trees, are by far the most popular. No local tree performs like these Australian imports. Dr Nicolás Martínez, Governor of Tungurahua province, first planted Eucalyptus globulus