Donde esta los Baño? Here.

[This entry takes place in late November, 2008.  I'm getting caught up this week, I swear]

Nightfall descends over the small, adventure sport capital (well, one of them…) of Ecuador as I arrive, and the Ecuadorian habit of confidently responding to questions despite having no actual knowledge of the answers is screwing me over more than normal.  One part politeness and one part pride, I’ve experienced this in nearly every city I’ve visited, making me wary of any directions, despite the fiery glow of certainty their giver may give off.  Tonight, I get four different sets of directions to the popular Plantas y Blancas (translated “plants and whites,” you can probably guess the decor of the hostel) and after discovering the last set to be correct, I shudder at just how terrible the first three were (one ended in a small canyon looking over a river, actually…).

And I only asked policemen.

From bottom to top, the hot, tepid and cold baths of Baños

Baños means “baths,” rather than “bathrooms” as anyone that’s read a Spanish guidebook up to page three might be confused by, and if it were the latter, this place would probably be far less of a tourist attraction.  Though I suppose there have been times where I might’ve considered busing three hours for a pleasantly undefiled bathroom since I’ve been here.  I’m still too much of a traveling “newb” to resist uber-tourist sites like this; veteran travelers seem to make a point of getting as far off the beaten path as possible [Note: writing this in Nova Rocafuerte, I seem to have gotten off said beaten path -- this place has no internet, and electricity for only about 12 hours a day].  Three sets of baths (read: giant, pools of opaque, water the color of mucous after a slight bacterial infection — “it’s all the minerals” we’re told, which we desperately want to believe — filled with people) can be found in the city limits, though only one resides at the bottom of a scenic waterfall, with both frigid pools/fountains and nearly scalding baths heated to an almost uncomfortable level by the local volcano, Tungurahua.

At least one picture in this blog entry was not taken by me

Said volcano — the tallest in Ecuador — blew it’s lid last just a year ago, and nearly ruined the town with a more epic burst in 2006.  When the vast majority of cash flow into a town comes in via tourism (both from Ecuadorians and abroad), evacuating an entire town for six months can be devastating.  From the disproportionate amount of pasty white faces on the streets compared to any other town I’ve ventured into down here, clearly the place has bounced back.  Daytime tours to the volcano are available by foot, horse, motorcycle, ATV and whatever other semi-dangerous travel contraption’s hit the adventure circuit.  As more tourists swung by for the adventure sports, more adventure sports became available for said tourists utilizing the slew of natural resources in every way imaginable.  Waterfall rappelling, whitewater rafting, biking, bungee jumping, etc, all complement the scenic beauty of the idyllic little town encircled by mountains.

As I arrive, backpackers — two male and one female — are waiting at the door to Plantas y Blancas and we head in together.  There are two-bedroom and four-bedroom options, and when one of the males claims that the four bed option is fine, something almost imperceptible passes between him and the girl.  Hostel connections are built quickly (and apparently die just as quickly), and after claiming our room, three of us head out for dinner and drinks.  It’s one of my first times alone since arriving in Ecuador, so I enjoy the expediency with which I found company, and shortly through dinner we decide on taking the popular bicycle trip the following day to nearby Puyo, 60 kilometers away.

But the proximity and fame of the baths demands our attention first.

This shot was taken directly next to the hot pools

The hot baths, and the cold

Steam rains upwards from the near-scolding mineral bath, heated beyond hot tub temperatures to a level that generally evokes a soft yelp and frantic turn of the red faucet when achieved at home.  I gingerly test the waters with my foot, and fail before getting more than toe knuckle deep.  Repeated attempts bring my body almost to tolerable harmony with the waters, but never to the point where the soft, warm sting that vibrates through me recedes.  Frigid water showers out from the walls like dense man-made waterfalls, just beyond the hot bath and a steady stream of locals pass through, giving immediate shocked reactions to the icy contrast of the human stockpot they’d only recently exited.  Not so much a shower as a free-flowing beam of water emanating from a hole about five inches across, the drenching power of the torrent completely envelopes and overwhelms any daring enough to pass under it almost instantaneously.

The hot baths at night

There’s no middle ground here — only the strangely compelling extremes from hot to cold.

“Gringo.”  An older woman calls over to me.

In slow Spanish, she explains that these pools have been providing health and long life to the people of Baños for hundreds of years, simply by following a simple routine: Five minutes in a hot bath followed by one minute under the freezing shower.  Repeat seven times.  The most amazing thing about all of this is that I was able to grasp it with my limited Spanish.

Then again, she might’ve just been asking me what time it was.

Muscles lock as my still steaming body takes the single step forward that places me directly underneath the outpouring of liquid ice, and a sharp, involuntary exhalation passes through my clenched teeth.  For several seconds, I forget to breathe.  Or maybe I just don’t want to.  The discomfort passes quickly though, and gives way to an almost hypnotizing sense of calm that I’d experience seven more times over the next forty-two minutes.

“Do you really think this routine is good for the body?” Lucia asks me.

“Sure,” I say, pointing at a decrepit elderly man being lifted up in a daze after collapsing under one of the cold showers.  “He’s only 27…”

The long descent (halfway) down to Puyo

Lucia, the female of the group, originally from Slovakia, stayed up with me in much hyped (all well-deserved) rooftop terrace of the P&B until 3ish, so the bike trip begins a bit later than anticipated.  Almost entirely built around tourism, the center of Baños seems to have more adventure sport companies than restaurants and tiendas, with bike rental options both immediately next to and directly across the street from Plantas y Blancas.  Because when I’m intending to participate in hours of cycling exercise, the last thing I’d want to do is have to walk more than a block to pick one up.

We grab the last three bikes at a cost of four dollars each for the entire day, and head off.  Helmets are included, as are bike chains and archaic repair equipment, though should the latter have come into play, we likely would’ve walked back carrying our bikes rather than attempt any advanced roadside engineering.

Lucia and me, bike to the left, and the first waterfall in the background to the right

Few roads lead into or out of Baños, and the love this road gets from biking tourists for being almost entirely downhill for the sixty kilometers it takes to get to Puyo must thrill local commuters forced to dodge oncoming traffic while keeping their vehicular manslaughter points low.  Returning, therefore, would be a major problem, were it not for trucks that make a habit of picking up exhausted foreign cyclists and their gear for a marginal fee.  The first half of the trip is famous due to a deep, precarious valley that runs alongside the road, dropping off hundreds of feet down to a river fed by a series of waterfalls.  The seven major falls make for a ride that’s as gorgeous as it is relaxed and breezy, and several of them have treacherous paths leading down for those with exploratory natures.

Despite little word of this from the guidebooks, there are segments of uphill riding that my out-of-shape ass struggled with a bit, though I did my best to disguise my panting to my younger and slightly more fit partners in crime.  David, a well-educated young Englishmen on the last leg of his South American trip, came along for the ride along with Lucia and myself.  The first three falls made for decent rest stops and vistas, but didn’t seem worth the hike down.  It wasn’t until the fourth, made slightly more prominent by a cable car running across the valley, and a suspension bridge further below, that we opted for a more hands-on approach.

One of the broken boards in the bridge. It's about a thirty to forty foot drop down...

Every awkward, weighty step downward drenched in sweat through the steep descent is an uncomfortable reminder that at some point, past swimming and exploring, past waterfalls and bridges, flora and fauna, we’ll have to climb back up to the bikes.  The bridge is sturdy, but old, and the occasional broken board adds to the sense of excitement as it slowly rocks from side to side as we cross.  It’s nice to have access to potable water and changing rooms at the base of the falls, but the 75 cent entrance fee felt about as warranted as any nature tax that doesn’t seem to go in any way towards enhancing the actual site.

The waterfall, with suspension bridge to the left. There's a cable car going across here as well, but it's not quite as visible in this picture.

Mist clouds the air for our long walk to the falls, and while it’s refreshing at first, our clothes are uncomfortably drenched before we take notice how dense the mist truly is.  The bottom of the falls is craggy and shallow, making for a poor swimming arena; we opt for a small pool further down to cool off before beginning our long ascent back to the road.  The pool was almost dizzyingly refreshing, but halfway up the hill, any of its curative effects on us have already be fully drained.

Crossing the bridge. Well... Posing on it, at least.

The bikes pleasantly unmolested, we ride through tunnels, down dirt detours and through small, lackadaisical towns before reaching Rio Verde.  Literally “Green River,” it hosts the largest waterfall along the Baños-Puyo route — “El Paílón del Diable” (no idea what a “Pailon” is, but the devil apparently has one — and is the largest town we’ve hit since leaving.  Craft stands (again with a focus on jewelry devoted to either Che “viva la revolution” Guevara or Bob “I wear this to display that I enjoy marijuana” Marley) dot the top of the path before it descends down to the base of the falls.  Far more intense than its cascading cousins we’d passed earlier, it costs a dollar to get to the observation deck for a proper view.  Having come this far, we bite the bullet and pay, getting access to both a precarious stone vista directly in front of the falls and a cave-like tunnel that leads to a vantage point behind the falls.  If you’ve got the buck, it’s probably worth the view; frugal travelers already don’t need to be told to skip it.

David and I, at the lower observation deck of the Devil's Pailon

My legs are long dead by the time we finish our final ascent back up, and it’s nearing dusk.  Rio Verde’s about 30 kilometers through the run, and from what we’ve heard, most of the scenic splendor is used up by this point, making the remainder of the trip to Puyo fairly uninteresting.  A quick late lunch and we negotiate our way back to Baños with the local truck; he wants ten for the three of us, but we get him down to six.

No one respects you if you pay full price here.

Rafting out those bad Poudre vibes

Getting knocked from my raft towards the beginning of a class IV (was it a V?  I’ll take the extra badass points that’d offer…) rapid along the Poudre (pronounced “POO-der”) River in Colorado wasn’t one of my finer moments.  It was the third time I’d ventured into white waters, and supposedly the least dangerous of the set, but it was the only river that almost sucked me down to a watery grave.  Well, “extreme watery discomfort,” at least.  As I hit the water with a soggy thud, I immediately reached for the raft and began climbing back in with the assistance of friends, only to have the guide press his paddle to my head and push more forcefully back into the maelstrom.  Floating through the torrent unaided, I kept my feet forward, my body loose and my mind clear save for an extended “FUUUUUUCK,” with a new diphthong added by each rock hit that lasted the entire thirty second ride, uninterrupted by any other intelligible thoughts.

No major damage, other than being bruised, battered and winded, but after that, I was quite content with never rafting again.

Two things brought me back into the wetsuit fold: 1) It couldn’t hurt to counter any irrational (or hell, even rational) fears I might have and 2) Lucia really wanted to go, and it would’ve been a terrible show of masculinity to cower away from the activity in even the slightest way.

A class III

The boat’s an interesting mix of tourists: an engineer from Australia and his British wife, on holiday; a African-American principal from Texas that was surprisingly a Bush supporter (”he was really good to teachers as Governor”); a German computer guy without enough English for me to find out anything about him; Lucia, David and myself.

My heart races through most of the trip, despite the rapids falling mostly in the III category, with only the occasional IV mixed in for good measure.  Despite the low grading of the water, I can’t ignore the sheer force of the torrents as they toss the boat about.  It’s an adrenaline-inducing experience, but on the whole not terribly dangerous.  The guides are all fairly experienced and even speak relatively decent English.  For 25 bucks, it’s a better deal than any similar rafting trip you’re likely to find in the States, and it even comes with free lunch if you survive.

Waterfall Rappelling

Down the waterfall, slowly

It’s like regular rappelling — attach yourself to a rope, ignore survival instincts and steadily bounce down a sheer rock face — except that a waterfall drenches the rappeller through the entire descent, and the added slickness level of the stony surface helps kick things up a notch as well.  It’s both unique and heavily recommended by past visitors to Baños, and despite the occasional vertigo, the guides maintain control of everyone’s drop at all times, should any rappeller be foolish enough to let go of his rope.

The biggest danger I faced was embarrassment; forgetting early on to keep my legs spread apart, I lost my stance, slipped over the slick, wet rock and slammed sideways into a crevice.  Once sideways in an awkward position, it’s a bit more tricky regaining the right footing.

Probably the only really negative aspect of the activity is the initial climb to the summit.  From the top, there are five distinct waterfalls to rappel down, but the van drops all rappellers off at the base, and the tight, sock-less shoes they offer for better traction are terrible for actual hikes.  Things culminate in what amounts to a slick natural sliding board that dumps participants off gracelessly into a final muddy pool.

It’s probably far less dangerous than the rafting, but those with a fear of heights should take precaution.

The view of Baños from across the lone bridge running into town

Look, at just under a hundred bucks for three and a half days down here, it’s far more than I’m used to spending.  But the conflagration of so many different and unique activities in one gorgeous spot allowed me a pass, I think…