Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
gers, trussed up chickens, and other annoying, swinging paraphernalia. I thought this type
of bus belonged exclusively to old, Greek, tourist novels. Right above my head, I was star-
ing into the petrified orange eyes of a tropical looking chicken. His nether regions aimed
directly above my head. Fortunately, I had on an old baseball cap. I tried to ignore it. My
attention was soon diverted to the driver. He was no more than fourteen years old.
The doors finally closed with an ominous squeal and were bolted with rusty old locks. The
young driver looked wildly behind at us, and his eyes gleamed narrowly when he saw two
tense Westerners blinking back. His seat was low slung, and he could barely see over the
top of his enormous steering wheel. His uniformed cap blocked the rest of his vision as he
gunned the bus's surprisingly healthy engine and shot off in a sea of wildly rocking heads
and chickens. I was sure I saw a pile of personal belongings leering drunkenly at us through
one of the dust-caked windows.
Like their cigarettes, they drove their buses at full speed, particularly when approaching
dangerous bends in the dusty road. With hearts in our mouths we slithered and swayed
our way across the island. I have to admit frankly that I never thought we would get there
without a terrible accident. Thank God there was no traffic coming the other way. Perhaps
the driver knew this. The locals seemed completely unaware that their driver had a death
wish, or that he was a frustrated racing car driver. We finally ground to a halt in front of a
wide river. When the last pebble had dropped onto the bus and the cloud of dust had settled
allowing us to see again, we alighted on shaky legs to the sanctity of terra firma. The more
firmer the less terror, as my dad would have said. I was stunned to see that the packages
were still on top of the roof. How was that possible? I had a sneaking suspicion that the
driver would have vaulted the bus over this river had there been a little ramp.
We followed the jabbering crowd to a ferry that awaited us and were soon jostling for seats,
old friends now after having faced death together. The chickens were a lot happier too as
we forded the clear river. There was another bus awaiting us: a more modern bus and a wo-
man driver. It was obvious she still enjoyed life, and we arrived smoothly in the little town
of Porto Ayora all smiling and relaxed.
It was a dusty little town, shy, like its Ecuadorian inhabitants. The men seemed rather small
and dark while the women were voluptuous and pretty. They too were dark and sultry, and
they all spoke in Spanish. We enquired where the harbormaster's office was and went down
to the waterfront to deal with the clearing in details. The office had been advised of us, and
we were hauled across the coals for not arriving here in Porto Ayorta. Our excuse sounded
thin and frail, and we slunk out of the office branded as yachting criminals.
Finding the only supermarket, well, perhaps just market would be the better word, we
bought some essentials and had a quick squiz about the little town. We saw a few night
