The Little Engine That Couldn’t

To enjoy being a traveler, I think you need to enjoy modes of transport.

Planes, trains, and automobiles. Some complain about that part—the “getting there” part—and see it just as a rotten means to a worthwhile end. Perhaps that’s why some folks never travel at all; it can be hard to stomach the time spent in transit. Sometimes literally.

But somewhere along the way, I realized that we love the journeying bit. (Especially on a train. It’s the best!) It’s how we see the landscape change and recognize movement or progress, like the feelings that come with sunrises and sunsets or passing seasons. So often the physical traveling is where we meet other wanderers. And on the oldest paths, there is even a sense of connection to the many who have wandered that way before.

Ever since we got to Ecuador, though, our transportation has been fraught. You’ve already heard about the lost luggage on the way to the Galapagos. What we didn’t mention was the failed landing attempts: both of them. Two times the plane emerged from the cloud cover over Santa Cruz Island to discover that the ground possessed a harrowing quality of nearness, which the pilot counteracted with dramatic g-force-inducing stunts. These he followed with the announcement that we would need to return to the mainland to refuel before he could attempt another arrival. The crew passed out crackers and juice boxes as a poor consolation prize for spending an extra four hours stewing in our seats.

Then there was the bus strike. To get from the coast to the sierra region, I’d proudly scoped out and confirmed at the ticket window that a public bus could take us for a great price. On the day of departure, though, all those ticket windows were sleeping with metal roll-top eyelids stubbornly shut… nationwide strike due to rising diesel prices and a year of low fare returns (thank you, pandemic). Bags packed, eager to get to the mountains, we did not want to give up. We made it up those whiplike mountain switchbacks, gratefully and wretchedly, squeezed into a tiny cab with three seatbelts and roll-down windows for airflow to hold the terror and nausea at bay.

Once the bus strike was resolved with an agreement for higher fares, Ecuador’s president announced new travel restrictions—no buses after certain hours during the week and no going anywhere on the weekend. We couldn’t seem to get a break! But as the news percolated through, we learned that only certain provinces were under curfew, and perhaps we could proceed as planned. Nope, our destination was in a restricted area. Could we rent a car to get there? Yes! A company had just the vehicle we needed to get on our way. Wrong again! They only had even-numbered license plates, and it turns out that day was a day for odd-numbered plates. If we didn’t mention that restriction before, it’s because we had no idea!

Throughout the false starts and failed landings and unexpected political upheaval, I kept holding onto hope for one particularly shiny transportation gem—the Nariz Del Diablo train route. Touted by multiple travel guides and blogs as one of the most scenic railway experiences in the world, I was stoked to find it and determined to get us to one of the small mountain towns on its path. Alausí is one of those iconic Andean settlements growing like concrete crystals up the rich vertical substrate of volcanic rock. It’s beautiful. It’s also where we learned that the Ecuadorian rail system was shut down a year ago with the onset of Covid, and its assets are being liquidated. Hard to get far on a liquid train, folks.

It might sound like I’m complaining. 

But that is only because you don’t know the whole story. It’s not in spite of these upsets that traveling is a joy—it’s because of them. When you are attempting the sometimes monumental task of moving from one place to another, unexpected and dramatic events happen. And what fun is life without a good story? 

Besides, that plane ride to the Galapagos? As soon as we had to turn around, that plane was like a party! Strangers sitting next to each other started talking, laughing, sharing a good quip while they shared their crackers. The rental car failure? We ended up taking a short taxi ride out of town to enjoy a desperately-needed two days of nature therapy. The crammed, nausea-inducing taxi ride? I spent that time reading over my son’s shoulder and talking about the story (of a plane crash in the Amazon, how apropos).

As for the little engine that couldn’t in Alausi, well, we couldn’t have been more enchanted by the town; besides, we walked that mountain on foot instead. And I never would have touched the springtime flowers, or felt engulfed by sudden clouds, or tasted that rain, or joked with the women farming their near-vertical fields, or heard the satisfied grunts from their foraging pigs if we’d been in a train car. 

Keep enjoying the journey, folks. Sometimes it’s the best part of the story.