On Boxing Day, I headed down to the south of Ecuador, to Vilcabamba, nicknamed the Valley of Longevity because of the many inhabitants who live over 100 years. It is a place to chillax and decompress, and that´s exactly what was on the agenda.
First, however, I decided to do an 8 hour horse and hike trek. It didn´t matter that I hadn´t ridden a horse in over ten years, and never for longer than an hour or two. It didn´t matter that I was alone, with my spanish speaking guide, and had no idea how to steer a horse (is that even what you call it?!) up a mountain, and was wearing totally inappropriate rubber boots for the trek. I was Gung Ho. And after a few minutes, terrified outta my mind! It had been raining a few days prior, so watching the guide´s horse slip and slide up the mountain and through the passes was less than comforting. However, the views were stunning, and soon I relaxed and had a chat with the horse, telling him I was going to trust him with my life, and he could do what he had to do as long as he didn´t kill us both, or buck me over the side of the mountain (I´m pretty sure he understood English, cuz after that, he was a lot more calm and I didn´t die!). We were walking along the ridge of the Andes, at some points with sheer rock on one side, and sheer cliff on the other. It was amazing. Unfortunately, I was too scared to take any pictures (that would have involved letting go of the saddle horn, a risk I was unwilling to take). After three and a half hours, we had reached the middle of nowhere, and commenced our hike, after tying up the horses so they could lunch on lush green grass.
The hike was more like scrambling from root to root up a cliff (in rubber boots, remember!). Soon I was huffing and puffing and swearing under my breath at my monkey of a guide. My legs and feet were on FIRE, and I was about to sit down and give up when we came upon a waterfall. It was really nice, and wet and we stopped and ate lunch. After half an hour of awkward conversation, we decided to go and find the horses again. One hour later of gruelling hiking, legs on fire from the rubber boots (never NEVER again!), we got back to the horses. Just as the sky decided to open up. At the top of a mountain ridge. Three and a half hours from civilization. We jumped into the saddles (well, I spastically scrambled up into mine...) and started down the mountain. If I was terrified going up, I was petrified coming back down. I honestly prayed from start to finish, often squeezing my eyes shut so I wouldn´t scream. The rain had made the trail slick and muddy, and I kept envisioning myself plummeting to my death, thousands of feet below. It was awful. Plus, my legs and butt were sore and chafting on the saddle. And did I mention that it was pouring rain? Who wouldn´t want to sign up for such an adventure?! At one point, I begged the guide to stop and let me off for five minutes, and he made it seem like I was asking for the moon. I didn´t ask again, although it took us over four hours to get back to Vilcabamba. When we were finally back, I couldn´t even summon up the energy to get off the horse. I was finished. The guide and his father literally had to peel me off, and I could barely support my own weight, let alone walk back to my hostel!
At any rate, I spent the next four days recovering from my horse trek, but that recovery included a full body massage one day, a neck and shoulder massage the next, and many an hour chillaxing by the pool. I also made friends with some of the ex-pats in town, Ira (the scarecrow) and Bill (the 65 year old Ben R.), and had a tour of Ira´s cob house, with his living roof. I´m pretty sure I could definitely retire in Vilcabamba and hang out with these guys, as long as it didn´t require any more horse rides. Gosh. Never again.
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