Three Days in Cuenca

As soon as the booming party music died down, and the screeching laughter of the drunken club girls faded into the distance, I thought I'd be able to drift off to sleep.  I could feel the heavy weight of weariness pulling me down, slipping into a comfortable, steady breathing rhythm... when suddenly, the clanging ringing of heavy bells jarred me awake.  It was Sunday morning, some ungodly hour, and already the church on the corner was calling people to mass.  I tried to block out the off-key, dissonance of the bells, and thought I might be fading back into that sweet oblivion when air raid sirens suddenly jolted me back into the present.  Karla mumbled something about World War III starting, and, confused, I pondered the idea, but it seemed preposterous that anyone would be bombing Cuenca, Ecuador, high in the Andes, at 7 AM on a Sunday morning.  Perhaps it was some sort of a drill, I thought, as a I tried to flip on the light in the bathroom and discovered that there was no electricity.  Or perhaps it meant that the power was out.  An hour later, after more church bells and air raid sirens, the power was back.  Welcome to the heart of Cuenca on a lazy Sunday morning.


Earlier... it was Friday, and the afternoon had just started.  We were on the express bus from Guayaqul to Cuenca, which passed through the beautiful Cajas National Park, and rolling along at a smooth, steady pace when suddenly a grinding, chugging sound came from underneath the middle of the bus.  The driver kicked it into neutral and we coasted to the side of the road.  Parked, the bus idling, he and his second got out and peered under the bus.  Then the banging started at the driver, presumably, began hammering away at whatever was causing the problem.  Soon, many of the passengers disembarked to sit on the side of the road and watch the goings on.

Karla and I, not knowing anything about diesel bus mechanics, decided to remain on the bus, but, looking out the window, I could see two old Andean men poking at some pieces of hot broken metal on the ground.  These were presumably chunks of whatever mechanism had come undone and caused our current state of affairs.  The two men appeared to be in a deep conversation with each other as to the merits of the broken parts and whether the bus driver could possibly pull off some kind of MacGyver-esque repair job.

We have a broken trans axle, I contemplated, although it might as well have just been a cross beam of some sort.  There's no way he's going to fix it.  We're going to have to hitch a ride with the next truck that comes on by.

More banging from under the bus, and then the driver or his helper killed the engine.  Even more banging ensued, perhaps a half hour of hammering in all.  Then everyone boarded back onto the bus.  The driver and his helper got back on board.  Some lady in the back prayed the rosary (or perhaps she was just cursing to herself about the delay).  We all held our breaths.  The driver started the ignition.  The diesel engine roared into life.  Now the moment of judgment.  He put it into gear... the bus lurched forward... we were back on the road, accelerating... he shifted into a jolting second, coming up to speed, into third...  Everything seemed to be holding together.  We were on our way.

An hour and a half later, we rolled into Cuenca, excited, nervous, cooled off (in the last six hours we'd ascending from tropical Guayaquil's 100 foot elevation, 90+ F, 97% humid, oppressive weather up to a nice, chilly Andean 8000+ foot 55 degrees), and relishing our first views of this beautiful town.  In the distance, we could see the city center, with its Spanish colonial-era facade, beautiful churches, and cobbled streets.

We took a taxi from the Terminal Terrestre (main bus station) into that very center, to El Cafecito, a hostel attached to a coffee shop and bar, where we were staying. We were two blocks from one of the main streets, Calle Larga (which runs along and above the Río Tomebamba, cutting the city into two halves, with the University of Cuenca on its southern banks and the historic old city on the northern banks), three blocks from Parque Caldéron (lined with the town hall, one of the historic colonial churches, and many other beautiful old buildings), and about ten or so blocks from some of the only preserved ruins of Tomebamba, the original Incan (and pre-Incan) city that had resided here before the Spaniards conquered and what is now Cuenca was founded on top of those very ruins (most of the stonework being re-purposed by the Spanish to build their own structures).

Cuenca - a beautiful city.  A clean city.  Trash wasn't littering the streets, graffiti wasn't scrawled across every wall...  The colonial-era architecture that our guidebook had promised really existed...  A beautiful city.  A city with the feeling more of a proud, laid back town.  We were already in love, after only a few hours, after sitting along the riverbank and breathing in the fresh, clean, high-altitude air.

And then late Friday night the music was turned up to eleven, and the historic old city became the happening scene for the young, hip, party-goers of Cuenca.  Dancing all night long.  Two doors down from the hostel.  Pounding right through the walls.  The paper-thin walls.  Until 4 AM.

Saturday night, repeat, to Sunday morning, with an extra helping of church bells and air raid sirens.

Despite these odd, middle of the night and early morning quirks, we were still charmed by the city.  In fact, I thought, this place reminds me a bit of Santa Barbara, where I'd gone to school in Southern California - probably because of the same Spanish colonial architecture and college town feeling - although the people in Cuenca are by far much less stuck up (or rich) than many of the permanent residents of Santa Barbara.  We explored much of the old city, visiting the museum at the Banco National, and the ruins out behind it, ambling along the streets, past craft vendors, through one of the markets with its hanging meats and produce, eating at many different cafes and restaurants, and strolling along the waterfront.  Last night, we even saw a movie (El Hombre Lobo / The Wolfman, in English, with Spanish subtitles) at the Multicine, across the river, past the University, which was inside of a small mall and featured stadium seating.  The movie wasn't very original, but at least it was entertaining on a Sunday evening.

And then Sunday night we slept, because clubs aren't open on Sunday, and there was no loud music, although the church bells did ring this morning at an odd time.  Is there a such thing as Monday morning mass?

At any rate, having decided we like Cuenca so much, we are staying here two extra days from what we'd originally planned.  We've left El Cafecito in favor of trying out a new hostel, Posado del Río, just a couple of (hopefully quieter) blocks away. We had breakfast at an Australian-run coffee shop that we discovered yesterday - Kookabura Cafe - and our giant pile of laundry is currently being washed at a nearby lavanderia.

Right now, we are just taking it easy and trying to enjoy not rushing off to the next destination.