Panamericana, Ecuador

On the map, the Panamericana wiggles its way south in a uniform orange line that shows little indication of the density of traffic. The congestion we experienced out of Quito is rendered the same as the desolation seen on the upper elevations near Alausi, giving little insight into how enjoyable each section might be. As we get deeper into the mountains and further from population centers, the orange-line riding becomes better, just as the road quality gets worse. This trend will undoubtedly continue as we make our way across the Peruvian border at it's most remote post, trading the thick orange for thin white and dotted red.

A similarly odd relationship occurs when getting progressively rural, one that involves the openness of people and the meanness of dogs. We've found that as pueblos become further spaced, the people are increasingly kind, just as the dogs become increasingly mean. Conversations with village people remain simple, hindered by our Spanish ability and their native Quichuan tongue, but we're managing to communicate the necessities by shaking empty water bottles and smiling. We're inevitably led to the outdoor faucet which dispenses the sweetest, purest water without the waste of plastic bottles. The dogs, on the other hand, will guard their alotted property with raised hair and snarling teeth, but as soon as we raise our fists with the rocks from our pockets, they cower like kittens.

The few camps that we've made in between city stops have offered the utmost privacy in stunning settings, never more than a stone's throw from the Panamericana. Breakfasts, lunches, and dinners from our own kitchen has given us relief from the chicken-foot stew that's served at most diners, but the bakeries that punctuate the rows of buildings along the highway never go unnoticed. Somehow, the flaky croissants can't be replaced by the flour, water, and salt bread that we've tried cooking. Now in Cuenca, we're preparing for another remote stretch by eating our fill of heavy foods not capable of being transported under pedal power. The gridded old-town has been full of quait corners, magnificent cathedrals, and unremarkable museums, but the magnetic pull of the Panamericana is pulling us southward, yet again.