The scream of turbofan jets seems omnipresent in this city high in the Andes, whose ranges and valleys are interrupted by the snow clad volcanoes, Cayembe, Pichincha and Cotopaxi amongst others. Morning, noon, and night huge aircraft thread the eye of a needle that is the narrow valley, with its densely house-clad slopes making up the environs of this city astride the equator. As passengers come into the recently updated (and vastly improved) airport, the boxes of roses depart in even greater numbers. Some go out on the scheduled airlines beneath the feet of tourists returning from the Galapagos while others fill the freighters’ holds, destined to satiate global demandShiny fuselages with brightly painted logos beaming down in the bright sunshine of October; Cielo, Polar, KLM, Lan Chile, Fedex and UPS. DC10s, Airbuses and Boeings in a variety of designations beginning and ending in seven. The air is thinner at this elevation close to 9500′, and the aircraft seem asthmatic in their clawing in and out of the valley, jets gasping and shrieking. Their speeds seem accelerated beyond good physics due to the proximity of the city’s buildings to their wing tips. Any accident here will remove buildings and people by the hundreds… in a heartbeat. It certainly seems so the many times I have made this approach and departure into and out of this wonderful city.
On final approach I look out of the window and without doubt can look clearly into the windows of peoples homes, hotels and businesses. I know no other landing that has me second guessing the pilot’s sense of self preservation quite so much. At visit’s end the take off seems interminable in its length and equally thought provoking. Taking off to the South the aircraft hurls itself off a plateau and towards another mountain, but only after having its suspension compressed repeatedly by alarming undulations in the single runway. It takes a few anxious seconds for the colored homes, stacked one upon another to fade away beneath the wings and to be replaced by the hectares of plastic indicating the origins of the Roses beneath my feet. In turn Colombia and Panama slide slowly beneath. A well traveled route for me and I feel blessed, the amount of people who cross themselves on each of these take offs.
I have once again made safe passage to catch up on the comings and goings in the Latin American Rose world as displayed at Cemexpo and discussed in most every reputable restaurant in town during the course of this week. Growers, buyers, and sellers from all points come to trade. One’s standing in the flower hierarchy is indicated by where one is wined and dined, the conversations entertained, and the other “personalities” pointed out. There are buyers here from Russia, as well as buyers from the US mass merchandisers and wholesalers, and breeders from France and from Holland. There are people here that wield enormous financial clout and believe me it can be seen and felt. There are those that wear it well and then there are the arrogant. I find it all fascinating.
Quito, since I last dropped in, seems so much more composed in terms of cleanliness and orderliness. It is as striking as the difference I noticed in Santiago, Chile last month. Latin/South America have made remarkable strides in many areas of late. The world economy at work you suppose? A new airport building functions well, traffic flows much better, streets are clean and hotels, as always are very, very good. Ecuador needs to make a concentrated play for tourists…they would love it. Tourists and Ecuadorians alike. This is a country that has more than enough to offer. This week in October the weather is brilliant blue with hot days and cool nights, the light is almost blinding and the wet season remains safely just around the corner. The volcanoes stubbornly wear full or partial cloaks of cloud for my visit however.
Perhaps it is my imagination, but has Quito lost some of its distinctive scent? I did not pick it up while propped up outside the airport awaiting Sra. Monica Madero, this weeks gracious guide, mother of my godson and the bride of an earlier journal. Don’t tell me they cleaned the place up THIS much. Although those reckless, nasty little diesel belching buses with the raspy exhaust note are still in evidence there remains something missing and I can’t put my finger on it. It is vaguely disconcerting. In addition, wherever I go I am asked if I smoke. Initially I think they are being courteous but soon it is evident they are reveling in the fact that Quito seems to have gone smokeless. No wonder the place smells different!
Winding through the city towards the new tunnel that takes traffic to Cumbaya and the valley that leads to Cayembe and many Rose farms all is a kaleidoscope of entertaining street scenes. Stores and businesses stacked one upon another in a jumble of colors. Fruit and vegetable stalls cheek by jowl with mom and pop tire stores which in turn are dwarfed by the new mega stores and malls of an incoming culture. Good looking slim people with beautiful black hair abound. Is there anybody older than 25 in Ecuador? Fancy condominiums alongside cement block structures that still sprout rebar. Little European and Asian cars bumper to bumper with huge US made cars currently available for equally huge discounts given the sudden misgivings up north over these gas hogs. At stop lights men and women thrust pamphlets through your windows for everything from pizza to politicians. Young men lie down on the road and juggle soccer balls as others inhale spirits and then breathe fire. All in the hope of making a buck. Politically left leaning as they may well go this next month, the politics of Ecuador has gas pegged at about $1.40/gal at this time. While Ecuador is a substantial producer of crude oil it imports all its refined gasoline! The roads that a few years ago could have swallowed a horse and cart now hardly upset the suspension of the Ford as we wind our way across the valley via immaculate new toll roads.
A rose farm is a place of never ending fascination to me, no matter that it might well be the hundredth I have been fortunate to have had an invitation to. The toll roads give way to the more familiar rural road, less many of the potholes of yesteryear winding through a largely sere brown landscape of grasses and maize accented with the grey grit of the Andes and huge roadside Eucalyptus. Terraced hillsides dotted with farmers ascend into the clouds and Cayembe hides its summit while flouncing its skirts.
My guides and hosts today are Alberto Cantillana, Fausto Romero and Monica Madera. While they are happy to show me their low elevation farm that produces a profusion of bouquet sized Roses in 60 days we are all anticipating our “20 minute” trek (Quito Clock) to the new high elevation, Valle Verde farm, where a Rose bud takes 110 days to ready itself for Amsterdam, Flowerbud.com, London, Moscow, and points in between. The road becomes a track of cobblestones bounded by tamped earthen walls, some upright, some collapsed. The air is clear, the sky is very blue between the few clouds that are huge puffs of white floating lazily over the khaki landscape that rises and falls away to the distance. Entering a Rose farm often entails passing beneath some kind of portal with a gate or barrier opened by some seriously fit and armed, clean cut young guy in what appears to be body armor bedecked with spare cartridges for his revolver. Interesting business this Rose farming and I feel right at home despite the lack of smiles and the feeling I am about to embark on a Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid escapade. After all Bolivia ain’t that far from here is it?
To be cont……