Whilst Ecuador is undoubtedly a fine country, fascinating, intoxicating even, a combination of our drawing our financial horns in, Blighty-esque weather and forced reliance on sustenance which could best be described as uninteresting and barely edible pap, our mood has generally hovered between dismay and disaffection.
"Disaffected about being on holiday for nigh on a year Andy? You're having a laugh", I hear you scoff.
Well, yes actually, though we have acted decisively to arrest this slump and get proceedings back on the straight and narrow by booking two trips of the "Oh my god, I could pop with excitement" variety.
We pick up from last time with us having had a ball in Quito and about to make for the coast and some long overdue sun, sea and sand at a place called Puerto Lopez.
We decided we should take an overnight bus from Quito as the journey was 12 hours in length and so I began to search the net for some info.
Having established that "Reina Del Camino" were the company we needed I googled them to find not details of departure times and prices but reports of a crash on an overnight service to the coast where the coach left the road and fell 100ft down a cliff, killing 30 + passengers.
Deciding that lightning was unlikely to strike twice in the same place we decided to go for it.
As a recent facebook post would testify, you are more likely to die from texting than (for example) a shark attack so a night bus on precipitous and twisting Andean roads should be a cake-walk.
(winky winky bro')
Despite falling asleep at about 2130 it was anything but a pleasant journey. We stopped innumerate times to let people off, each such stop proceeded by the lights coming on and the town in question being bellowed out several times by the conductor. The road was quite rough so I found my neck lolling like those stupid dog things you see on car dashboards and on a scale of 1-10 for the overall experience I'd give it a resounding zero.
To make matters worse we somehow shaved over 2 hours off the journey time to see us arrive in Puerto Lopez not at 0745 but at 0530.
Now it is fair to say that neither Kerry nor I are at our best at that hour. In fact we resemble the lobotomised, or people sedated with horse tranquillisers.
Roused from our slumber by a moustachioed arse barking Espanol at us and then being oiked out into the drizzling pre-dawn was horrific and we sat on our packs at the roadside for a full half hour before one of us suggested we perhaps ought to think about moving.
Puerto Lopez looked like a hovel of brobdingnagian proportions as dawn broke and the inhabitants' day began.
Breeze blocks and corrugated iron were the building materials of necessity if not choice, roads were unpaved and, as I sought somewhere to take a leak, Kerry watched a stray dog run out of an eatery with a joint of meat, drop it in the road and the proprietor retrieve it.
We were far from enamoured.
I left Kerry on the seafront to go and find us a room and, if I say so myself, did a fine job.
I looked at 3 or 4 different rooms ranging from $8 bamboo shacks to $30 hotels with all mod cons. Not only that, I took photos of each room so that Kerry could see the fruits of my labours.
I looked forward to her affirmation as I returned to her but instead was met with frosty indignation that I'd left her long enough for her to get cold.
Is it just me or are all women always cold?
Here we were about 100 miles south of the equator and I was hearing that familiar complaint. Tempting as it was to offer my usual "well put a jumper on then" I realised that she doesn't have one and such a suggestion may have been the precursor to a previously unthought of shopping excursion.
No, best to keep schtum.
We were fortunate that the room we chose was available there and then so after a quick brekkie we adjourned to our quarters and slept solidly until almost midday.
We looked forward to getting out into the sunshine, sitting on the beach and taking a dip so you can imagine our disappointment to find the town bathed in a soupy fog with as much prospect of our hitting the beach as of Luis Suarez staying on his feet in the box when within 6 yards of an opponent.
It was actually a little bit nippy, so much so that although we swung in hammocks near the pool that afternoon we did so wearing jumpers and socks. I'm no Bill Giles and I find meteorology about as interesting as knitting or party political broadcasts but I would like to know how you can be so close to the equator and at sea level and be cold.
Next day we awoke, excitedly drew back the curtains and found that the soupy fog had lifted somewhat, about a foot in all, so sun, sand and frolics were unlikely to be ours today either.
To wile away the morning we pored over reams of information regarding the Inca trail in Peru.
In our naïveté we assumed one would turn up in Cuzco, find the trail and set off on your own. There would be accommodations en route, eating opportunities, and a jolly time would be had by all.
A few days ago I'd decided to have a quick scoot through the Peru section of the LP and was amazed to discover that not only do you have to go on an organised tour but you have to reserve your places a minimum of 6 weeks in advance, subject to availability.
There are only 200 spaces per day available and with innumerate tour companies offering places and armies of gringos wanting to undertake this rite of passage it is by no means a given that you can go when you want to.
It was something of a minefield: do you want to hire a porter, walking poles, a sleeping bag? Do you want to return by train to Cuzco or Ollantaytambo? The Hiram Bingham express or the Vistadome? Spend the night in Aguas Calientes or return to Cuzco straight after visiting Machu Picchu?
It probably took us a couple of hours but we finally nailed it and we're on.
The Inca trail, it's lung-busting altitude and knee-joint-threatening day of over 2000 irregular steps is booked for the end of November. Can't wait!
We went for a little walk around town on Tuesday afternoon and began to really like the place. The people were friendly and despite its down-at-heel appearance there's enough building work going on to suggest that in a few years it will be a totally different proposition.
There's a row of bars on the beach and a couple of enterprising owners had rigged a tv up and were showing the Venezuela v Ecuador world cup qualifier. What better way to spend a couple of hours? Supping grog, on the beach, watching footy.
As that match finished then Chile v Argentina started: scheduling of the highest order.
The weather on our third and final day in Puerto Lopez was still pretty dire with heavy cloud hanging overhead.
In light of our booking our Machu Picchu trek we decided to go on a yomp to see how we fared and elected to walk along the coast to the next town.
I downloaded a pedometer and off we set, completing 4.5 rather boring miles before we reached a long and completely deserted beach.
After 4 or 5 weeks inland the pull of the sea was too strong and we felt compelled to whip all our kit off in a trice and take a dip. Fortunately (for them) noone was on hand to witness our impromptu strip and subsequent flubby and middle-aged waddle down the sand.
By the time we arrived back at our hotel we'd completed 9 miles and though it was at sea level and we had no packs on our backs we felt confident about the trek. The longest day we'll face is 12 miles so if we can do 9 straight off with no ill effects then we should be fine.
We took a bus to Guayaquil on Thursday, Ecuador's largest city and convenient stop over for us on the way to Riobamba.
Formerly of bad reputation, the city is cleaning up its act and is much less dangerous than it might have been 10 or 15 years ago. The riverside malecon is being redeveloped and there are some lovely old buildings to gawk at, particularly the cathedral in Parque Bolivar.
As we wandered around we saw an office for LAN, the airline that serves Easter Island. By coincidence I'd been trying, unsuccessfully, to find some information about this online so we went inside and were thankful that our agent spoke some English.
I began by asking about flights from Santiago in January.
"To Where?"
"Easter Island"
"Where?"
"Easter Island. Rapa Nui? (shows map)
"Ahhhh, Isla de Pascua"
I've never heard it called that before but went with it.
"Ok, there's a flight from Santiago, change in Lima"
"Change in Lima? Can we board in Lima instead then and not travel from Santiago?"
"No"
"I don't understand why not. Ok, what if I was Peruvian and I lived in Lima and I wanted to go to Easter Island. What would I have to do? Are you saying I would fly to Santiago, fly from there back to Lima and then from Lima to Easter Island?"
"Yes"
"Well I'm sorry but that is ridiculous"
......... A 5 second stalemate...........
"One moment, there is a flight from Lima, direct to Easter Island"
"Go on................."
We eventually got there and even better, if we could fly on 3 November and stay on the island for a week we would qualify for a 75% discount on the regular price.
We snapped her hand off, booked them before she could change the price or offer apologies that they'd all sold out or something and skipped out of there like our numbers had come up on the lotto.
What a bobby-dazzler! Easter Island, at last.
My old mate Nick Tandy knows what it means to me to be going there.
Belter!
The next leg of our journey would take us to Riobamba, an unremarkable place in its own right but the starting point for a twice weekly train to, a couple of hours south thereof.
Whenever there is an opportunity we like to travel by train. They're so few and far between on this continent that it's something of a novelty to do so and this particular one is notable for the scenery it passes and the changes in elevation it deals with.
By the time we'd travelled from sea level at Guayaquil, in our flip flops, to 8000 ft at Riobamba we were both perished and headachey.
We went some way to repairing ourselves by feasting on pizza and pasta and turned in early so as to be up early on Saturday morning and be first in the queue for tickets for Sunday's train.
Breakfast has become something of a problem meal for us of late and today was no exception.
In Blighty we normally eat an omelette but they don't seem to exist in South America.
As people who either can't or would rather not eat bread it is very difficult to find anything to eat other than scrambled egg; fine for a few days on the spin but now we're on day 45 of it it's becoming increasingly difficult to get down.
Today's scrambled egg was tasteless and meagre, the coffee in Ecuador is (surprisingly) instant and the juice arrives suspiciously separated in the glass and tastes of bile.
It's depressing.
After my 3 mouthfuls of cardboard egg we went over to the station to book our tickets to discover that the train no longer runs from Riobamba. It now starts in Alausi, travels 12km through beautiful scenery to a mountain called the Devil's Nose and then returns. It is purely and simply a tourist train, not a convenient and exciting way of getting from A-B.
In addition to that you are no longer allowed to ride on the roof following 'incidents' in recent years.
Bugger!
That there are pictures all over town of the train travelling through spectacular scenery with hordes of backpackers sitting on their packs on the top of each carriage was not helping quell our disappointment.
After a quick conflab we decided to get to Alausi by bus and ride the train tomorrow on its short little hop - better than nothing we reasoned.
The bus journey was only 2 hours but if this mode of transport were ever a novelty then it's fair to say that it has well and truly worn off.
Alausi was hot, dusty and distinctly lacking in any comforts that may have made these two ageing backpackers feel better.
There were lots of indigenous Indians here, all dressed to the nines in thick woollen layers and trilby hats, children in blankets on the women's backs and there we were in our zip-off trousers and flip flops. We felt a little out of place.
We ate lunch in a Chinese where the menu had been translated into English.
We could choose from:
Lion with potatoes
Chicken to the broth
Chop Suzy solo (shop alone suey)
Chicken to the iron
We would have hooted, had the blood-spattered, vest wearing owner not have been peering through the curtain from the kitchen at us whilst brandishing a meat cleaver.
There was little to do in Alausi except wait for the train and we did that separately; Kerry continuing to plod through the apparently mind-numbingly boring "Anna Karinena" in our room and me sitting at the feet of a humungous statue of Jesus on top of a hill overlooking the town listening to podcasts and larking about with 3 local kids.
Dinner that night was (hopefully) our culinary nadir. Only one 'restaurant' was open, a grotty dive offering one dish of chicken stew. Whilst this sounds ok, if scrambled egg is wearing thin then so is rice, especially when accompanied by knobbly sparrows knee-cap.
We're normally pretty resolute when it comes to food but just lately we've been talking at length about having a roast dinner, a good Ruby Murray, sun-dried tomatoes, sausages from the butchers next door to Kerry's work. What was on our plates just got us down and we turned in that night, unsatisfied and hoping the train would raise our spirits.
Sunday was a beautifully sunny day and, even at 0730, the town was a throng of activity. A local market attracted people from far and wide and the trilby hats outnumbered the zip-off trousers of the gringos assembling to ride the Devil's Nose by a good 100:1.
It was actually a wonderful way to spend a couple of hours, despite our not being allowed on the roof. We dropped 2000ft in those 12km and traversed a couple of switchbacks to reach a place called Sibambe.
There was a restaurant here, locals posing with llamas for a dollar per photo and a troupe of dancers, waving at the train as we arrived and beginning their performance as we disembarked.
It was all as natural as your average Hollywood bra content though I must admit, the baby llama was a bit of a cutie.
At the small museum there we learned that roof riding was banned in 2009, the train ran through from Riobamba until 2010 and the whole line from Quito to Guayaquil will reopen in 2013.
Sadly, a case of exceptionally unfortunate timing on our part.
We also learnt that the line was built around the turn of the century and with the original indigenous work force prone to running off into the cordillera the Americans employed Jamaicans and Barbadians instead. A total of 4000 were employed, a remarkable 2500 of whom succumbed to tropical diseases or were killed in other ways during the line's construction.
On the walk to the bus to our next port of call, Cuenca, I stopped by a workshop and paid 10 cents for the chappie to make some repairs to my case handle. He only wanted 5 cents but I thought I'd tip him heavily for the sterling job he did. My case is undoubtedly on its last legs but, come hell or high water, it will see this trip out.
Cuenca is another colonial gem and it was a pleasant enough stop without blowing us away.
The thing is, we've seen so many places that have done so that we're getting a little blase. 'Jaded' I think is the correct word to use.
We bumped into a Welsh couple we saw on the train yesterday but that pleasant little exchange aside Cuenca was largely forgettable for us as our sense of wonder had all but deserted us.
What we need is a change of scenery, a beach perhaps, something to eat other than scrambled egg and rice, to cross another border.
And so to Peru.
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