This is terrifying for two reasons: reason one is that South Americans consider a vehicle full when the doors will no longer shut due to people being squashed in them; reason two is that the Equadorian public transport system, once you've left the safety of Quito, appears to be modeled on that of rural Lincolnshire. To cut a long story short my journey to Otavalo involved several buses, many many hours, some small broken bones and other minor crush injuries, and an unfortunate asphyxiation incident when a rather large woman mistook me for a seat.
Unfortunately it turned out that Otavalo was something of a disappointment. Now this really is partially my own fault. Having been on the continent for such a long time at this stage I had already seen many a market, I had already seen traditional Equadorian dress (a minor variation on Bolivian tradional dress, and an even MORE minor variation on Peruvian traditional dress) and I had already experienced the thrill of feeling too guilty to haggle
the one banana you're tring to buy down from 15p to 10p. I had also made the inexcusable rookie error of trusting the Lonely Planet book of lies once again on a matter that was subjective rather than factual. I would highly reccommend the Otavalo town market experience to anyone who didn't have long in South America and wanted to see a market. The markets really are spectacular out there and this is no exception. However, I would argue that just because its one of the largest doesn't make it the best, and there really isn't much that makes Otavalo unique beyond its size and the horrendous inconvenience it is to get to it from the bus station.Just as a side note my favourite three markets would have to be: the Market in Arequipa which is fairly small but has everything you could possibly want and is full of lovely Peruvian treats and friendly locals; and the two markets in La Paz- the Witches Market for the novelty of seeing dried llama foetuses, toilet bowls and live salamanders all for sale on the same stall... a place where you can truly get everything- evidenced by one memorable shopping trip where we purchased ping pong balls, a chicken outfit, 3 meters of chiffon, jelly mix, foam wolf masks and a minature Twister set; and the market at Al Alto, which must be one of the highest markets in the world... an incredible experience as its the biggest continuous outdoor market I've ever seen and you wonder around spaced out from the altitude, alternately freezing and boiling as the sun goes behind clouds.
Anyway, Otavalo wont be making it onto my favourites list, and with that realisation complete I was off to investigate how I was going to get into Columbia before nightfall. The man at the bus station had bad news for me- two more local buses to get anywhere near the border, and even then I would still be 6k away. Resigned to my fate (I didn't even consider turning back... seemed a waste of a perfectly good 'life experience') I spent the next 5 hours traversing what can only have been about 30 miles to the border town of Tucan. It was here I met a fellow Englishman called Alan, which was partialy a relief because it meant not having to foot the cost of a taxi by myself... but partially worrying too as, to be brutally honest, he seemed a little strange, if harmless.
The Columbian border at Iquitos is rumoured on the Traveller Trail to be fraught with difficulty, the Columbians apparently being sticklers for searching ALL your luggage or accusing backpackers of being drug runners and refusing entry. I had been given some fairly sound advice in Peru to make sure I got 'tourist stamps' in my passport prior to trying to enter Columbia; these are passport stamps that evidence that you've been to places like Maccu Picchu or Midad del Mundo and add a little credo to your claim that you haven't spent the last 4 months sneaking cocaine in and out of Bolivia or something (ironically most of the cocaine in La Paz is brought in by Columbians, rarely by backpackers). One way or another, after examining my documents for an epic amount of time I was cleared for entry, and still with my escort of odd Alan, we were into Columbia. Once we had got a collectivo into the centre of Iquitos I decided to quiz Alan on his massive bag, you know, the kind that looks suspiciously like it might contain a corpse- thankfully it turned out that he was just carrying his paraglider around with him ("I think paragliding brings you closer to God both literally and metaphorially"), which was a small relief.
By this point I had decided I would like to see the town of Cali as my first stop in Columbia. Partly because I had heard good things from other travellers, and partly because the Lonely Planet was so negative about the city I felt it must have something to recommend it. So Alan and I borded a bus after a mere 3 hours in the fairly pretty town of Iquitos (right) and were off to Cali on a night bus only made eventful by Alan telling me his life story ("and so after three years of unemployment I met a Columbian girl over the internet and moved here, unfortunately a month later she moved to Scotland"), and being woken at 3am by a Columbian police officer to check our papers (although this turned out to be standard practise throughout Columbia so nothing to worry about).
The next morning dawned on a rain- sodden Cali and it was time for me to part ways with Alan and have my first real taste of Columbian life...
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