Quito Bonito

Our plane appears about to land on a city street as the roof-tops reach up to meet us but, just as the collision appears inevitable, we are over an airfield and wheels touch tarmac. Quito airport is actually in the city – the “new” city that is; whereas I have only 24 hours here so I am staying overnight in the heart of the Centro Historico  I am staying the night in the Centro Historico – the old colonial heart of this mountain city, which is also a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Quito is the second highest capital city in Latin America at 2,850 metres. It’s surrounded by high volcanoes and, like that Yorkshire city Sheffield, is built on hills. The altitude and the hills means that you feel constantly out of breath, even just typing this blog!

I drop my bags in my windowless and stained carpeted room and head out to absorb some history. Quito is the 2011 American Capital of Culture and there appears to be a great deal of renovation and regeneration going on – a never-ending task I feel, like painting Scotland’s Forth Rail Bridge. Everywhere you turn another colonial period piece of architecture fills your vision.

I wander, enveloped in the sights, sounds and smells of another place, with no firm agenda other than to gain some height to get a panorama of the pan-tile roofs. The city is dominated by churches, particularly the somewhat overpowering Basilica – maybe that is its purpose. I don’t know whether to feel uneasy or reassured by the astounding number of police and security guards on every street corner. I opt to stay around where the people are. There appears to be far too many people of both genders walking tiny dogs on long leads, which are dressed with fancy collars and wearing funky t-shirts - what's all that about then? In a small, green park area I am almost mugged by two tiny boys carrying wooden boxes containing shoe-cleaning gear. They keep pointing to my shoes saying they are dirty. My Spanish is too poor to explain that that dull waxed finish is how it is supposed to be. Just behind them, too mustachioed, elderly gents are watching the scene, chuckling to themselves knowingly.

I ascend the recently re-built steps towards the Virgen de Quito – an enormous statue atop a hill – and suddenly, there is no traffic, nor tourists, nor police. I climb higher to where the steps are still incomplete and take my photographs. On the descent an unsavoury drunken/ drugged type is coming up towards me. Oh blimey! I puff out my chest and try and look hard. As I walk past he asks me to stop in drawling Spanish, I just say no and scarper down the steps. He just carries on up. Maybe I’m just paranoid!

Quito's Historic City

I head back to my room without a view for the night, stopping briefly for an unappetising meal in the Quito equivalent of McDonalds. There are lots of tiny old ladies leaving the centre, dressed in hats, dark jackets and long, dark skirts. They have black boots on too. They are bent double, struggling up the hills, with large cardboard boxes full of god-only-knows strung to their back. I wonder what life is like for them.

Dusk falls